


Spoils of War

by Limmet



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - Loki Wins, Angst, Captivity, Drama, Gen, Isolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 53,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limmet/pseuds/Limmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki wins the battle of New York and claims Tony as spoils of war. It is not particularly fun for Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: Hello, dear reader, glad you’ve decided to give this story a chance. :D Before you continue, though, I just want to point out a couple of things you should bear in mind: 
> 
> 1\. Some of you might have read my previous Avengers story, Poetic Justice. If you have, you will probably recognize some general themes and topics from PJ along the way that have been revisited and given a different spin in this one, since I thought it would be interesting to play around with those concepts in another type of setting and circumstances. So yeah, I won’t deny that there will occasionally be some parallels here and there between the two stories. But other than that, this has no connection to PJ, though, and is on the whole very much a different story. 
> 
> 2\. If a chapter merits any warnings that might count as spoilers, they will be put into the end notes of that particular chapter as to not spoil readers who don’t want to get spoiled. So if you’re worried about encountering any triggers, make sure to always check the end notes of each chapter before reading any further. 
> 
> So, if you’re okay with the above two caveats, please enjoy. :D

_They’ve failed. So fucking miserably and utterly_ failed _._

 

That’s the one single thought that keeps running on auto-repeat in Tony Stark’s mind as he’s lying flat on his back among the rubble like a big metallic bug, staring at the lumbering forms of the butt-ugly alien creatures darkening the sky above.

 

In movies and books, a protagonist in his situation would be laughing hysterically at the total mess they’re finding themselves in, but he’s not feeling even a tiny bubble of laughter welling up. There’s just a huge, terrible black hole inside of him, totally devoid of any potential for humour or wittiness.

 

_They’ve failed._ They couldn’t close that damn portal, and now, New York is being mercilessly crushed by these… creatures.

 

Once more, he stirs, trying to extract himself from where he’s stuck under the beam weighing down on him. And once again, the metal obstinately refuses to budge, doesn’t move even an inch from his struggles.

 

And what makes having to see New York being smashed into bits and pieces by an alien invasion even worse, is that he’s stuck and can’t do jack shit. Not that it makes much of a difference, if he’s to be honest – even if the beam of doom pinning him in place would vaporize into thin air this very instant, nothing would really change. His suit is damaged beyond repair and has shut down completely. Total power failure, no connection to Jarvis, no nothing. Every last back-up resource utterly depleted. Even the warning signals have long since stopped churning, the bleeps and blinking having faded away to nothing.

 

His suit is just a sheath of metal now, fully encasing him. Well, apart from the missing faceplate that got lost somewhere along the way, having been torn off by some stray splinter.

 

And now that suit is good for nothing more than serving as protection from the beam weighing down on him, taking the pressure off his body and preventing him from being slowly crushed to death. But he’s still stuck, as surely and certainly as a mouse held down by a lion’s paw.

 

Not that it matters. He’s going to die here anyway, the last function of his Iron Man suit being as a substitute for a coffin.

 

At that, he spares a thought for his comrades, wondering how they are faring. If they’re still alive, something that he sincerely doubts. Natasha and Clint were probably the first to go – despite their well-honed skills, their bodies are as fragile as his without his suit. And Bruce – well, once the Hulk is gone, he’s even weaker than Tony, the only Avenger bearing that doubtful honour. Steve and Thor ought to last the longest, but he knows that not even they will be able to hold their own forever against the never-ceasing downpour of swelling, undulating warships coming out of that space portal.

 

He swallows and licks his lips, desperately wishing for a drink of water, if nothing else. Despite the thirst, at least it’s more pleasant to occupy his brain with that than thinking about his fellow Avengers and the morbid speculations about who might still be left. He lost track of them long ago in the battle, as they were separated and driven back by the vicious onslaught. Natasha he had last seen as a limping swirl of red and black as she jumped at a Chitauri, and Steve bleeding profusely from his left arm as he threw his chipped and cracked shield at an opponent, but as for the rest, he can’t remember. Can’t recall what the last was that he saw of them.

 

A shadow flickers over his face as the sun is momentarily shaded over by one of those hideous creatures moving over the skyline. Its sickly movements are slower, more subdued, as if it’s doing recognisance as opposed to battle. Which makes perfect sense, of course. Judging by the sounds, the fighting has already died down, at least in this area, and there is no doubt about which side has emerged victorious – it sure as hell isn’t his.

 

The previous roaring and shouting and crashing have not fully ceased, but it is fainter now, and more interspersed with bouts of silence. He closes his eyes for a while, trying to shut out the visual proof of their lost cause, shutting out the ruins of collapsed buildings and the mountains of rubble filling the streets. So much damage in so little time. So much chaos, so much utter destruction. He can only pray that the invasion will be contained before it reaches the rest of the country, or, at least, the rest of the world. That _someone_ will be able to stop this madness, by whatever means.

 

_A higher form of war,_ Thor had called it. It’s strange, because it doesn’t seem like any higher form to him. Just chaos and destruction, death and blood and pain, like all wars. Like in all human history, just on a grander scale.

 

The scouting warship flies past him again, lower this time, sweeping across the sky as a dark abomination. He shudders, seeing its shadow move over his armoured body, a sickly grey tint on grimy and dusty red.

 

Groaning in frustration, he makes another yank on the arm that’s still trapped, but he’s meeting with no more success than before, and he ceases his struggles as his exhausted body quickly wears out. It’s such an irony that he’s come out of the battle more or less unscathed, with nothing worse than bruises and cuts dully throbbing beneath the suit, only to end up stuck like this. No broken bones or internal bleeding, just being held here like a lamb for slaughter, for whenever one of those Alien-Predator hybrids finds him lying here and decides to gut him.

 

Unless, of course, he dies of thirst instead.

 

_Well, whichever comes first._

 

He coughs a little; the air around him is saturated with dust and sooty particles, some of them having settled to cover his suit with a fine, dull layer of grey and black.

 

So this is the end, then – the great Tony Stark, dying ingloriously trapped beneath a beam in a heap of broken rubble in a fallen city. And he didn’t even get a chance to gloat at his nagging doctor about how wrong he was – it wasn’t liver cirrhosis that would eventually be his demise, but a bunch of fuck-faced aliens from outer space.  _Yeah, suck on that, Doctor Greendale, Ph D of Whatever Fancy Brand of Medicine._

 

There is an itch on his chin – a trail of blood slowly making its way from a cut on his head. He reaches out a hand – the one still free – to wipe it off. His gauntlet hovers above his face for a little while before he lets it fall to his side, annoyingly powerless and weaponless.

 

What sounds like a blood-curling scream echoes between what’s left of the broken buildings around him; even if it’s probably just some screeching metal, it is eerily reminiscent of a human voice. Enough to make a shiver run across his spine, filling him with nameless dread.

 

Whatever is to become of the world now, he won’t be there to see it. He just wishes he knew that Pepper was safe somewhere, that she managed to get away from this madness. That she isn’t one of the unlucky people trapped in this ruined city, another one of the faceless victims whose bodies will never even be dug out of the rubble. She deserves better than that. But if he knows her and her resourcefulness right, she would have made it out, one way or the other. He tries to console himself with that, the only positive thought he can muster up right now. _Yes, Pepper got out, she’s somewhere safe._

 

Though, _where_ she got out to, he doesn’t want to consider in detail. Because maybe this destruction will just spread until this is the fate of the whole world, and there will be nowhere _safe_. Maybe this really is… the end.

 

_Pepper_ …

 

Something is trailing across his cheek again, and he wipes at it, pretending it’s just another drop of blood.

 

_They’ve failed. So fucking miserably and utterly_ failed _._ They, who were supposed to be Earth’s greatest heroes, didn’t manage to protect their planet, and they sure as heck didn’t even get to avenge it either.

 

For a long time, he just lies there, waiting for death, for nightfall, for the Chitauri, for _something_ to come. But there is only an eerie silence, and it’s making his skin crawl. The fighting has obviously moved far away now – if there’s still any going on at all. Occasionally, a scouting ship sweeps past, and whenever that happens, he closes his eyes, not wanting to look at it. The mere sight of it makes him feel sick.

 

The next time a shadow falls across his face, he does the same thing – resolutely closing his eyes to shut out the reminder of their failure, of the way their world has been thrown into a maelstrom of terror and death, perhaps about to swallow up all of mankind. Everything he’s ever known, everyone he’s ever cared about, all about to be thrown into that gaping abyss. _Fucking hell._

 

But whatever is blocking out the sun doesn’t go away; he can still feel the shadow hovering above him. Perhaps the ship has spotted him, and is preparing for the launch of a well-aimed missile to take out the fallen Avenger sprawling pitifully on the ground.

 

_Whatever. At least it will be quick._

“Well, if it isn’t Stark.” A short but telling pause, as something ungently prods his side, felt even through his armour. “So we meet again.”

 

That voice – _that voice_ – oh, how he recognises it, despite his having only heard it speak a few sentences before. The smugness and the conceitedness. The arrogance and the disdain as it gazes upon its defeated foe.

 

In shock, his eyes snap open, hoping against all hope that he’s wrong and that it’s just his delirious brain imagining stupid things.

 

But it’s not. Standing above him, with a smug look on his face as it takes in the sight beneath him, is no other than the root cause of all this shit.

 

_Loki._


	2. Chapter 2

Yeah, it’s Loki alright, that fucking bastard, grinning down on him in arrogance, like Tony is a smudge of dirt on his boot. The ridiculous helmet is gone, but the sceptre is still in his hand, its tip glowing ominously.

 

“Go to hell,” he manages to spit out, not caring about how his usual smart-ass self should be able to think up a witty come-back, because his usual smart-ass self is going to be dead within minutes at the most anyway, and it’s going to be that creep standing right next to him who will be doing the honours.

 

Loki’s lips merely curl minutely upwards; whether it’s in distaste or amusement or something else, Tony can’t tell.

 

“Not so eloquent, are we?” Loki’s smug voice rings out above him. “Though, I suppose that is understandable now that you’ve been forced to concede your realm to its rightful conqueror.”

 

“You haven’t conquered jack shit yet, Rudolph,” Tony says, hoping that is the truth, even though he’s just guessing here. Maybe those flying creatures and the rest of the Chitauri are already on their way to the neighbouring cities to do with them what they’ve too effortlessly done to New York. “The Earth is a huge place; New York is just a fraction of it. Don’t flatter yourself.” He wants to spit in that face, but it’s too far away, hovering at a safe distance.

 

At that, Loki leans down a little, but only a little. “It is merely a matter of time, Stark,” he says with a flippant gesture. “The Chitauri are unstoppable, and you’ve only seen a small part of their forces yet. Earth will not be able to stand against them. Or against _me_.”

 

The last word is spoken with all the conceitedness of someone who thinks themselves untouchable. _Superior_.

 

Tony laughs, though it rings mirthlessly in his ears. “Whatever, Loki. If you keep this up, you’re going to be ruling a kingdom of rubble and _shit_.” His chin juts out, indicating the mess around them. “Which, come to think of it, would suit you just perfectly.”

 

Loki merely waves a hand, as if it’s of no consequence. “The rest of the humans will surrender quickly enough,” he says, sounding almost bored. “Unless they want their cities to suffer the same fate as New York.”

 

And Tony fucking hopes the guy is not right. One city is down or at least well on its way, but there is still a whole world out there that will keep fighting, right?

 

_Right?_

 

Not that he will ever find out, though. He’ll be killed by this son of a bitch long before that.

 

“They’ll fight you,” he says darkly. “Don’t for a second believe anything differently. We’ve had enough with crazy-ass dictators to last us a life-time to let freaks like you just waltz in and take over.”

 

“We shall see,” is Loki’s reply, as if he’s suddenly bored with the topic, as if it’s been exhausted already. Instead, his gaze rakes over Tony, pointedly taking in his situation. An eyebrow shoots upwards, and the grin widens slightly.

 

“You seem to be… _trapped_ ,” comes the superfluous comment, no doubt meant as a taunt. A finger goes out to tap against the offending beam, the soft clank of a fingernail against metal surprisingly loud in the silence. “And here I thought the great Iron Man would fare better than getting himself stuck beneath some rubble like a piece of snared prey.” He shrugs. “But as has been proven today, you humans are weak and deserve to be ruled, if even your own heroes don’t amount to more than _this_.”

 

The boot nudges him in the ribs again, and Tony growls in anger, wishing he could wipe that self-satisfied smirk off the god’s pale face. Preferably by driving a fist into it. Not that Loki would be likely to feel much of it, but whatever.

 

Automatically, he struggles against the beam again, even though he knows it will be as futile as before. But having Loki standing there at pissing distance has just brought a whole new sense of urgency onto this whole situation. Because now death is suddenly staring him in the face, and despite everything, he really has no particular desire to meet it. And to be honest, he’s fucking _scared_ , despite the bravado he’s putting on. Getting shot into pieces while in the middle of a battle with adrenaline surging inside of him would be one thing, but lying here helpless and defenceless waiting for his imminent demise at the hands of a maniac with delusions of grandeur is something completely different.

 

Not that he’s going to show Loki any of it, though. The bastard would just delight in it.

 

“Fuck you,” he says, another un-intelligent, un-Tony Stark reply, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. He finds his eyes gliding over to the staff still held regally in one of Loki’s hands, wondering if the god is going to bludgeon him to death with it, or possibly use it to impale him. Messy, but given that Loki’s magic hoopla failed to have any effect on him last time, it seems like the most plausible option.

 

_Death by magic glow-stick of destiny._

 

_Great._

 

Then, Loki crouches down next to him, and Tony represses a flinch at the sudden nearness. The smell of leather and earth and smoke and something unidentifiable fills his nose, and he clenches his jaw.

 

“How about I give you some obviously much needed _assistance?_ ” Loki says as a vambrace-covered hand reaches out. Before Tony can make sense of what the god is about to do – though strangling him seems like the most probable objective – Loki’s fingers are clutching the broken beam weighing down on him. There is a faint screech as metal scrapes over his suit, and a moment later, the pressure on him relents as the beam is – impossibly – lifted and discarded as if it were a toothpick.

 

It clatters sharply as it lands on top of a pile of rubble to Tony’s right, a signpost with something only partly readable sticking out from the side. For a moment, all his brain can do in its confusion is focusing on the black letters – “en’s schawar” all he can make out, the rest of it indecipherable.

 

Then, his attention is sharply brought back to the present nightmare as Loki’s voice rings out.

 

“Take off your suit,” the god says. No, scratch that, he _orders_ it. Like a fucking prince who’s spent his whole life being obeyed and having fawning subjects eagerly rush forward to fulfil his every command.

 

“No,” Tony grinds out, surprised at how steady his voice is despite the butterflies swirling around inside of his stomach. The situation just took a turn for the unexpected, and it’s disturbing him more than he wants to admit. Probably, Loki is planning to kill him in some more creative way rather than just bashing his head in, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to know what that is. At least the suit is still serving some sort of passive protection, even if it can’t _do_ anything anymore. It offers him a small, tiny feeling of safety, even now, when death by evil demi-god is literally staring him into the face.

 

Loki laughs; it is a clipped, barked sound. “ _No?_ ” he snorts, as if he can’t believe what he’s just heard. “I do not believe you are in any position to refuse,” he continues, the laughter gone from his voice now, the previous amusement having given way to a hardness with sharp edges.

 

“Forget it,” Tony says, turning his head away. He knows he’s just being obstinate, because it’s not like anything he does matters now, but if he can just make Loki’s plans for him a tiny bit harder or more inconvenient to carry through, it’s worth it. A final fuck-you he can throw into the face of Earth’s wanna-be dictator.

 

He makes to stand, deciding he will at least die on his feet, but Loki’s boot is suddenly on top of his chest, pushing him down and pinning him to the ground as securely as the beam had done mere moments ago.

 

Tony hisses at the unexpected contact, eyes snapping up to meet with Loki’s gaze. The face hovering above his is brimming with anger, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn up into a snarl as the god leans forward, increasing the pressure until Tony can swear he hears metal creaking.

 

He grabs at the foot, trying to pry it off, despite knowing it’s futile already. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the sceptre move in an elegant arc as Loki raises it and then swings it down at Tony’s head with full force. With a yelp, he lets go off Loki’s ankle, trying to bring up his arms to shield his unguarded face before the staff makes contact.

 

_Fuck!_

 

There is a sharp crack, and he winces, holding his breath as he waits for the inevitable pain to spread, if he’s still even alive. But there is nothing, so he slowly lowers his arms, barely daring to move as he peeks out from beneath their feeble protection, his heart pounding a storm in his ears. The butt of the staff is resting what can’t be more than an inch from the left side of his face, having smashed into the ground with a disturbingly small margin.

 

He swallows.

 

The staff then smacks smartly against what’s left of his helmet, clanging sharply in the stillness, bringing his attention back to the god still staring down at him.

 

“I said, _take off you suit_ ,” Loki repeats, voice dripping with both coldness and impatience.

 

This time, Tony grudgingly obeys as the foot on his chest lets up, allowing him to stand up.

 

He doesn’t speak a word as he slowly divests of his armour, doesn’t even look at the god in front of him. He’s trying to tell himself that it doesn’t make a difference, as he fiddles with the locking mechanisms, snapping them open one by one. It’s not as if Loki won’t be able to pry it all off his dead body anyway, but if he’s lucky there might still be some sort of auxiliary power or weapon left in the suit that he can manually discharge in a surprise attack, if only to annoy the god before him even if it won’t actually injure him much. Perhaps a heat missile in one of the gauntlets, or whatever.

 

But there is nothing. It’s all dead pieces of metal that he lets fall to the ground, each adding to the sad and pathetic pile of dull red and faded gold before him as he peels off his Iron Man identity until there’s nothing left of it.

 

As he throws the last piece of metal onto the top, standing there in nothing but his jeans and T-shirt, he can’t help but feel utterly and totally _naked_.

 

_Take away your suit, and what are you?_

 

He pushes the thought away, instead raising his eyes to stare Loki defiantly in the eye, not sure he wants to know what’s coming next. Sacrifice of puny human to evil demon overlord in gratitude for victory in battle, perhaps?

 

Loki is staring at him, right at a point where he would have been offended if he were a woman.

 

“Remove your shirt too,” comes the next command, and Tony blanches, taking a step back, full well knowing what Loki is after.

 

Loki merely narrows his eyes and raises that damn sparkly sceptre of his a little higher. “Don’t make me repeat myself again,” he says softly enough, but the underlying threat is still there.

 

And even Tony can see that it would be more dignified to remove his shirt by his own volition than having it ripped off by a fucking maniac while he’s on the ground bleeding, so he acquiesces, his movements stiff and taut as he pulls the shirt over his head, jaws set and defiant eyes not leaving Loki’s for any longer than the split second it takes for the fabric to be tugged over his head.

 

“That’s better,” Loki says with what sounds disturbingly like a purr as he bridges the distance between them with a quick few steps, the hand not clutching the infernal staff reaching out for the glowing circle at Tony’s chest.

 

“So this is your power, then,” the god says, his hand splaying across the reactor, almost as if in a perverted kind of reverence. A couple of fingers are resting directly on Tony’s skin, and he doesn’t like it one bit. He doesn’t want Loki to touch him, and even less so the very thing that’s keeping him alive. The closeness is making his skin crawl, and as Loki’s fingers are circling along the edge of the reactor, occasionally trailing over the skin around it, he takes a step back, not caring how clearly he’s making his discomfort known. There are many ways to die, after all, and getting his arc reactor ripped out of his chest doesn’t rank very highly on his personal list.

 

“Yeah, guess what, show’s over,” he snaps, pulling the shirt back over his head, not giving a shit how much that’ll piss the god off. At least getting his skull smashed in with a glow-stick is preferable to the slow agony that will follow a removal of his arc reactor. 

 

To his surprise, Loki doesn’t seem angry, or even annoyed, just smug and conceited. And that’s a look Tony likes even less on the god.

 

“Very well,” Loki says with a flap of his hand, as if Tony’s protest is of no consequence. “I shall study your invention more closely later, at a more convenient time.”

 

He wiggles his staff slightly and Tony can’t stop from wincing, expecting the thing to finally crash down on his head, as he prepares to dodge the upcoming blow.

 

But nothing of the sort happens. Instead, two men, dressed in the disturbingly familiar black of a pair of standard SHIELD uniforms step out of the shadows, their eyes shining with an even more disturbing blue. And Tony wonders if they’ve been standing there all the time since Loki showed up on the scene, waiting like lapdogs for their master’s command.

 

The god turns to his two mind-slaves, ignoring Tony as if he isn’t even there. “Bring the captive along,” he says, indicating Tony with a lazy flick of his thumb.

 

_Captive?_ Tony’s eyes widen at that. He definitely didn’t see that one coming, and to be frank, he isn’t sure whether that’s a step up or down from about-to-be-summarily-executed.

 

Not wasting a second, the two SHIELD agents – no, _former_ SHIELD agents, now – grab hold of Tony’s arms, holding them in a vise-like grip. He only struggles for a few moments before realizing the futility of it. Plus, having his shoulders wrenched out of their sockets isn’t going to be very conducive to his situation either, or make it easier to make his escape in an unguarded moment. Better to save his strength for later.

 

The green cape swirls behind the tall, ominous form of the god as he strides past them without as much as a glance, obviously trusting his new employees to handle things from there. Then, he comes to a sudden halt, as if he’s forgotten something, turning to Tony and taking in his expression with the raise of a perfectly arched eyebrow.

 

“No need to look so surprised; I’m sure you’re familiar with the saying, ‘to the victor go the spoils’,” Loki says, his composed voice taking on a harder note as he continues. “And you have just been claimed as _spoils of war_ , Stark.” 


	3. Chapter 3

He’s thrown head-first into a dingy room by the two henchmen, landing with a pained _oomph_ on the hard stone floor. Loki left them long before that, teleporting off to wherever, obviously trusting enough in the loyalty of his brain-washed zombies to let them handle Tony on their own.

 

Then the two men turn on their heels, obviously about to close the door behind the make-shift cell and leave, not sparing their prisoner another glace.

 

“Hey, wait,” he shouts at their backs, already turned towards him, as he struggles to get to his feet, shoulder throbbing from having been the unfortunate first part of him to make contact with the unrelenting floor.  “You can’t just--“

 

The door slams shut, lock clicking into place.

 

“--leave me here,” he finishes weakly, voice cracking slightly. _Damn, his throat is_ burning _._

 

“Hey, you asshats,” he yells, banging at the door. “How about giving me a drink? Or a sandwich? Or just fucking _something_ , huh? Don’t make me cite all the paragraphs of the Geneva Convention you’re breaking here!”

 

There is no answer. He doesn’t even know if the men in their smart black suits are still standing outside guarding the door, or if they’ve left. Either way, he doesn’t fancy being locked up in small and dark places, not since that cave in Afghanistan.

 

“I know you can hear me, Humpty and Dumpty,” he shouts, a bit louder this time, giving the steel door another round with his fist. “Come on, open the fucking door, will you? Tony Stark here, superhero and billionaire. If you agree to placing yourself on my payroll instead of Tall and Scary’s, I promise I’ll set you guys up on a date with some hot supermodels, okay? Or how about a Ferrari? I bet you’ve always wanted to drive one of those, huh?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Not that he expected there to be.

 

He tugs at the handle a few times – just in case – but as expected, that doesn’t produce any fruitful outcomes either.

 

He’s stuck in here, until _Loki_ decides to let him out.

 

The thought is not a pleasant one.

 

With a heavy sigh, he leans his back against the door, turning his attention towards his current accommodations. They are meagre, to say the least. He doesn’t even know what kind of building this used to be; half of it had already collapsed as they walked in, and that’s another unpleasant thought in the maelstrom already swirling around inside of him – if the rest is going to fall in anytime soon and bury him alive.

 

He pushes the mental image away. That’s one he doesn’t need right now anyway.

 

The room is – well, he doesn’t know what the hell it really is – because there’s almost nothing in here. Four walls without windows or anything else adorning them expect for cracks and flaking whitish paint and an electric socket, a rusty sink, and what looks like some temporary sort of toilet in one corner, even though it’s more of a hole than anything else. _Charming_. In another corner, there’s a filthy threadbare rug, and from the ceiling hangs a bare light bulb. That’s it. Nothing else, zilch, nada, not even a splinter-filled pallet to sit on.

 

_Why would any building even have a room like this?_ he wonders fleetingly. Then again, maybe Loki magicked this place into being, creating a cell according to his own twisted specifications that he thought appropriate for his enemy to be housed in until… well, whatever. 

 

_Fucking Loki._

 

He bangs a fist against the door in frustration, and then pulls frantically at the handle for a few moments, before he gives the thing a solid kick.

 

Finally, he sinks to the floor, slowly crumbling into a boneless heap as the reality of his situation is starting to sink in. Trapped in this shithole for who knows how long. Maybe he’ll starve to death in here. So much for dying gloriously as a hero fighting the bad guys.

 

And he really doesn’t want to think about what will happen next time that door opens. There is nothing he wants to think about, really. Especially not about that flickering light bulb above his head, and how it’s going to leave the windowless room in what would almost amount to pitch black darkness in case it goes out, apart from whatever modest light his arc reactor would provide.

 

There is a note of panic threatening to well up inside of him, but he resolutely pushes it back down. It will do him absolutely no good now, and will only leave him banging his head against that steel door, and heavens know that he’s sore enough already.

 

The sink to his left looks anything but inviting, but the demands of his parched mouth and throat eventually win out. He’s not going to be able to make any grand plans of escaping if he dies of thirst first. So he pushes himself up, wincing as his muscles protest the movements, and shuffles over to the rusty chrome that looks more like a bizarre kind of altar dedicated to some unnamed pagan god than anything else.

 

Enough time passes after he has turned the creaking knob that he’s certain that there is no water coming – heck, most likely the water supply has been cut off in the destruction – but then there are suddenly a few drops, followed by a trickle, and then a lengthy _slurp_ as water comes rushing out. It smells of copper and rust, and he lets it run for a good few minutes before drinking any of it. Still, there is a metallic taste on his tongue as he lifts his cupped water-filled hands to his mouth, but he’s too thirsty to care, so he gulps down mouthful after mouthful anyway, coughing and spluttering as it goes the wrong way.

 

Then he washes his face and his arms, cleaning himself of blood and grime and filth as much as he can, watching as the dirty water gets flushed down the drain. There is no mirror, which is probably just as well, since he doubts his reflection would be very flattering right now, looking like a mixture between a hobo and a survivor in a horror movie. His hands are almost numb with cold as he finally turns the water off, but at least he’s feeling marginally better, even though it’s by a very, very slight margin.

 

But hey, not dying of thirst is a good start, right?

 

He wipes his wet hands on his jeans, and then proceeds to rummage through his pockets, trying to see if there’s anything left. But he comes up with nothing but a tiny piece of lint; those blue-eyed SHIELD agents did a quick but disturbingly thorough job searching him and removing every non-essential item he was wearing – everything from his cell phone to his wrist watch and down to even his belt. Even the restaurant bill he remembers stuffing into his back pocket a few days ago is gone. He’s been left with nothing but his jeans and T-shirt and socks and shoes. Oh, and his underwear too; he supposes that’s gotta count for something. Going commando is something that he – despite persisting rumours telling the opposite – has never been particularly fond of.

 

With nothing else to do, he decides to search his cell a bit more closely. Perhaps there’s some weakness he can take advantage of, or something previously overlooked that he can put to use.

 

It doesn’t take long – he knocks on the walls, trying to gauge their thickness – they’re made of concrete. He tugs at the sink – it’s been firmly bolted to the wall. He lifts the dirty rug on the floor – there’s nothing beneath it. He investigates the lock to the door – but there’s nothing to pry it open with.

 

Finally, he just sits down on the rug with his head in his hands, doing his best to quench that little note of panic inside of him. Yeah, he’s Tony Stark alright, but without any tools or material to work with, not even he can do jack shit. He’s not fucking MacGyver who can easily conjure up powerful explosives out of a pencil and a rubber-band. And it’s not like Tony has been given even _that_ much to work with in the first place.

 

So instead, he sits there for a while, trying to think up possible escape plans. They’ve gotta feed him some time, hopefully – he can take the utensils and make something out of them – a weapon, a lock pick, anything. He can pretend to be sick next time whoever opens that door and demand to see a doctor – if they even care. Or he can just make a run for it, hoping to take his captors by surprise.

 

None of them are very good plans.

 

To be perfectly honest, they all plain fucking suck.

 

So he just waits, wishing for some piece of news of what’s going on out there. What’s happening in New York? In the US? In the _world_?

 

No way that Loki will be able to conquer it, despite his inflated opinion of himself.

 

Right?

 

He has no idea how much time is passing; without his watch or a window outside, there’s no way to tell. It feels like hours, but maybe it’s just minutes. Or days. Fuck if he knows.

 

He counts the seconds for a while. It gives him something to do, at least. When that gets boring, after less then a minute or so, he recounts mathematic formulas to himself, solving equations in his head and then reversing them back to their original state.

 

Then he paces, back and forth. Judging by his estimations, the room is four point two times six point one meters. He traces his fingers over the cracks of the walls as he walks, peels some of the flaking paint off and rolls it between his fingers until he has a whole collection of tiny little balls gathered before him on the floor. He lays them out to form a two-dimensional representation of a double helix, then a hexagon, and then various prisms and pyramids. Finally, he lays them out in the shape of the blueprint for the new suit he’d been working on, but the balls are only enough for one arm and part of a shoulder. The new suit, that he’s never going to finish. The pointedly unfinished paint-ball blueprint in front of him seems like it’s mocking him, and in frustration, he sweeps out a hand and scatters the pieces all over the floor.

 

Then he lies down for a while, stretching out his limbs as he’s staring up into the ceiling. The floor is ice cold against his back and legs, and he eyes the dirty rug in the corner, but decides to skip it for now.

 

He uses the sorry excuse for a toilet, washes his hands and drinks some more water, trying to ignore the hollow pit of his stomach and the growl that can be heard even over the splash of water against metal.

 

As shitty as his accommodations are and as much as he would rather be back in his tower, a small part of him is grateful that he’s not there, given the circumstances. Because maybe, just _maybe_ , that means that Stark Tower has still withstood the attack and that Jarvis has instigated a full lockdown on the place, activating every weapon and security measure the building is equipped with. Given the interest Loki had shown in his tower and how it had stood in the very centre of his attack, chances are that he would have wanted to use it as his headquarter and evil villain lair. But the fact that Tony is here and not back in Stark Tower with holding cells a hundred times more secure and efficient than this make-shift prison might be a sign that Jarvis is still in control.

 

Or that his Tower has been razed to the ground already.

_No._

 

Maybe Pepper made her escape there, and is now hiding in one of the extra fortified floors, safe and secure. _Maybe_.

 

There are suddenly far too many thoughts and maybes in his head, and he’s tired to the bone. So in the end, he lies down on the floor again, waiting for sleep. But the first thing that comes is the chill from the stone beneath him creeping into his skin, and not long after, he shivers.

 

Eventually, he gives up and goes to lie down on the dirty and worn piece of rug, looking as worse for the wear as he’s feeling.

 

Much, much later, he finally falls asleep and dreams of people screaming and jaws snapping and buildings crumbling, all covered with a tint of red.

 


	4. Chapter 4

When he wakes up, it is from the rustle of a door unlocking, and he sits up with a startle, confused and disoriented, the reddish fog of his latest dream still clouding his mind.

 

But as the door comes open, revealing two men in SHIELD uniforms, everything comes back to him with the force of a sledgehammer – yesterday’s battle, the Chitauri invasion, _Loki_ , getting locked up in here…

 

“Your breakfast,” the taller of the two men says, throwing what looks like a sandwich wrapped into plastic onto the ground. There is no disdain in his words or motions, just cold and ruthless efficiency. “I suggest you eat it. Food is in short supply at the present moment.”

 

Tony scrambles to his feet. “Hey, mind giving me a report of what’s going on out there?” he says, hoping he’s not sounding as desperate as he’s feeling. “Some of the latest news from the front, huh?”

 

He gets no reply to that, and as the two agents turn to leave, he lets that desperation win out.

 

He lunges, not sure if he’s intending to punch the nearest guy, grab hold of a weapon, or just shove past them and run, but comes to a dead halt as there are two drawn guns pointed into his face faster than you can say _fuck_.

 

“Stand back, Stark,” the shorter guy snaps, tossing his head as indication for Tony to step back.

 

_Fucking SHIELD agents. Why couldn’t Loki just have recruited some homeless guys off the street? In that case, Tony would have been halfway out of here already._

 

Not about to argue with a couple of guns, he raises his hands, palms out. Slowly, he takes two steps back, away from the door.

 

“Okay, let’s all relax. Just a misunderstanding here, nothing to be upset about, okay? By the way, have you thought about that offer I made you yesterday? About the supermodels and the Ferraris? And if that’s not enough, I could even throw in a--“

 

The door closes with a bang and a snap, leaving only Tony and the sandwich on the floor.

 

“--a bottle of Russo-Baltique Vodka as well? You know, one of the most expensive vodkas in the world? It costs more than what SHIELD pays you in a year! And no doubt a hell of a lot more than what you current miserable excuse of an employer is paying you. How about it, guys?”

 

Of course, he gets no answer to that, so instead he turns to the sandwich lying forlorn on the floor; despite yesterday’s hunger, he has no appetite whatsoever right now.

 

“Hey, I really hate salami! Couldn’t you have gotten me _anything_ else while you were at it?” he shouts at the closed door.

 

Of course, he’s only greeted with another bout of silence.

 

Sighing, he slowly starts to unwrap the plastic covering his meagre meal. The salad is wilted, the sandwich having obviously not been prepared today. Probably not yesterday either. He eats it anyway, and the salami too, trying not to chew too many times. The breakfast didn’t come with a toothbrush, so instead he rinses his mouth with some water once he’s finished, wishing he had a razor and maybe a couple of breath mints and some fresh clothes and… a hell of a lot of other things that he’d rather not think about now. But his old life back would be a decent start.

 

Having nothing else to do, he crushes the plastic wrapping into a ball and tries to bounce it against the wall. Plastic doesn’t bounce well against concrete, though. As an engineer, he already knew that, but whatever. Whimsically, he finds himself wishing for a real ball, at least then he would have had something to occupy himself with, as opposed to merely sitting here doing nothing but ruminating.

 

“So how about getting me a magazine or something?” he shouts at the door. “It doesn’t have to be the Playboy Magazine, even if it would be nice. Just something with glossy pictures in it, okay?”

 

No response.

 

“Or a book, perhaps? I always thought Crime and Punishment seemed boring as fuck, but I would be willing to give it try. It’s not like I have _anything better_ to do in here.”

 

Still nothing.

 

“Anyone up for a game of poker? Or if you’re busy, I can just play solitaire by myself. I just need a deck of games, and I’m all set. How about it?”

 

Silence.

 

And it’s as if something within him just _snaps_. Everything is just rushing over him at once – how they, the Avengers, lost against a conquering alien army, how New York was razed to the ground, people screaming and dying all around him, having no idea what is happening out there, what the fate of the world is going to be, what _his_ fate will be, _Pepper’s_ fate, everyone he’s ever cared a smidgeon about--

 

He finds himself banging on the door, not even realizing he had raised his fists in the first place. There are words – screams – leaving his mouth too, demands to be let out, to get some sort of information, some word of what’s going to happen, how long he’s going to have to stay here, and _what the fuck is going on out there!_

 

He screams until he’s hoarse and hits the door until his hands are hurting, kicking at the handle, trying to tear it right off. But there is nothing, no answer, no sign of life, not a single thing. He might as well not exist at all.

 

Finally, he collapses into a heap before the door, panting and chest constricting. His stomach is in turmoil and he fells physically ill. Realizing what is probably about to happen, he runs over to the sink and heaves a few times as he grips the sides with shaking hands, waiting for his breakfast to come back up, but despite the lurching feeling in his stomach, the sandwich stays down. Still, he remains hunched over long after his dry heaves have ceased, not finding the energy to do much else.

 

He’s glad the metal of the sink is dull and rusty so he doesn’t have to look at his own reflection. The feeling of dejection and failure is bad enough as it already is without having to see it mirrored in his own face as well.

 

For the rest of the day, noting noteworthy happens. Nothing more noteworthy than using the toilet-slash-hole a couple of times, having another drink of metal-tasting water, and dosing off on the rug while trying not to think about where it’s been before landing in here.

 

Not until there is the sound of the door handle being turned, and his head snaps up, fully alert now.

 

As expected, it’s the usual suspects entering – black-clad guy number one, and black-clad guy number two. What is not expected, however, is the thing they have with them, being rolled in on a low table with wheels.

 

Under normal circumstances, he would have said that was a TV, but now he’s not sure what to think. Despite appearances, an unfamiliar kind of torture device seems more likely. Perhaps the thing only shows Golden Girls reruns or something.

 

Black-clad guy Number One plugs the suspected torture device into the electrical outlet in the wall, as Number Two stands seemingly casually to the side, but his eyes never leave Tony for a second, hand resting lightly on the gun at his belt. Tony doesn’t even bother trying anything this time, he merely watches as Number One digs into his pocket and brings out some item he throws to Tony, who catches it.

 

_A remote control._

 

“So, this is a reward for model prisoner behaviour, right?” he says, gesturing towards the TV. Despite everything, he can’t help but feel a small sense of giddiness – finally, he might actually get some _answers_. Unless, of course, the TV has indeed been magically altered to only show those Golden Girls reruns.

 

“You are free to watch as much as you want,” Number One says. “However, the TV only receives one channel.”

 

_One channel, huh? Perhaps his suspicions were right, then._

 

“That’s okay. I always thought Blanche was quite nice-looking, for a GILF,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, clutching the remote hard in his hand, feeling his heart speed up a little in a mixture of fear and anticipation. Perhaps – finally – some news from the outside world. Not that he knows why he gets this now, but he couldn’t care less about the reasons, as long as he gets _something_.

 

As usual, there is no reply, the guards merely exiting his cell without any further words or information, and Tony hits the ‘on’ button on the remote before the lock has even snapped into place behind them, heart now positively drumming in his chest.

 

_Please let it be a news channel,_ he thinks, holding his breath as the black screen springs to life before him.

 

As if some god of technology above is listening to his silent pleas, the bottom left-hand corner of the screen suddenly shows the well-know red logo of CNN, and Tony could have laughed in relief.

 

_News. Real news._

 

He sinks down onto the floor with his nose virtually glued to the screen, turning the volume up so he won’t miss a precious word of what the serious-faced news anchor is saying. In transfixion, he watches as her perfectly lipstick-red mouth moves, forming real, actual _words_ , as pictures of chaos and destruction are flashing by on the screen behind her.

 

_“--similar scenes playing themselves out in_ _Indiana_ _and_ _Illinois_ _. The military has already withdrawn its forces from_ _Indianapolis_ _, instead regrouping to focus their--“_

_Indiana_ _and_ _Illinois_ _._ Not that geography was ever his top subject, but he knows there are other states situated between those two and New York. _Does that mean those states have already been run over by the Chitauri? So quickly? How did they manage that? How did_ Loki _manage that?_

 

There is a chill in his stomach, and he swallows hard.

 

_“--reports from unsubstantiated sources claiming that the leader behind this invasion, known as Loki of Asgard, has demanded an unconditional surrender. The President refuses to comment--”_

 

He sits unmoving, watching the pictures roll by on the screen, as wide-eyed news anchors read piece after piece of disturbing developments, and so-called experts debate and yell at each other. It’s like watching a bad horror flick, except that this is for real. This is an invasion, like in all those countless movies and books and TV shows. It’s really happening. Here and now. To _his_ world.

 

Despite the forced collectedness of the faces on the screen, calling for people to keep calm and to keep faith, there is an undercurrent of wild desperation beneath the surface, as if no one really believes that they’re going to win this, like it’s all a show they’re putting on for the masses to avoid destructive, full-blown panic. _Keep calm_ (yeah, right) _. The military is mobilizing additional resources_ (as if they’re not already throwing all they’ve got at the Chitauri). _Volunteers are asked to turn to the nearest community centre_ (volunteer to do what, exactly?).

 

That desperation only comes to the surface during a live feed when a neatly groomed and suit-wearing TV reporter is standing in some rubble, a solemn look on his face, and some guy in torn clothes jump out before the camera, shouting how it’s the end of the world and they’re all gonna die, until the feed is suddenly cut mid-sentence and the screen once more shows the two previous news anchors, acting as if nothing unplanned just happened.

 

So much information washing over him at once. He almost feels numb. The numbness is shaken a bit when mention is made of the Avengers. _None of their whereabouts are currently known, and they are feared to be dead._

 

And that’s when he shuts off the TV, lying down on his rug and curling himself into a ball, hoping sleep won’t take long.

 


	5. Chapter 5

He spends his days in front of the screen, watching as the world descends further into chaos and disorder. At times, he wishes there were other channels so he could watch something completely different – a cartoon, a lame sitcom, even a football game (are there football games anymore?), but there’s nothing else. Just the endless feed of news, talking about one thing only. Still, he doesn’t turn it off, because it’s his only connection to the world, the only thing letting him know what’s going on out there. Well, that and the two SHIELD agents, but they don’t really count seeing as how they’re mummer than mummies.

 

They still deliver him food, on and off. Always too little and too seldom and never anything decent, but he eats whatever he gets anyway. He loses count of how many days he’s been in this godforsaken cell somewhere between Canada surrendering and Mexico being invaded. It feels like he’s been here forever, suffocating in this tiny cell with only the TV as dreadful company.

 

In a way, he was right. It really _is_ a torture device. And yet, he can’t bear to turn it off.

 

America has officially ceased resistance. Or _surrendered_ , even though that wasn’t the word that the news anchor used.

 

South America follows, country after country laying down their arms if they ever took them up, government after government announcing that they have no choice but to bow down to the overwhelming alien forces standing right on their doorstep with weapons poised and drawn.

 

Asia and Europe are next in line, China and Russia putting up a fair amount of resistance, and even the EU managing to put aside their internal squabbling to launch a common defence, but it’s all for nothing. Whatever they put up is crushed as if it were nothing. The alien war machine rolls on, unstoppable and undefeatable.

 

As China and Russia fight, Tony washes his underwear and his T-shirt in the cold water of the sink, wishing fervently for a razor. Number One and Number Two haven’t brought him anything but meagre food and the damned TV. Not even a bar of freaking _soap_.

 

As the news anchor announces that China and Russia have ceased resistance, Tony is lying on his back on the threadbare rug, wondering what Number One and Number Two are doing all day, and if they feel any pride in the devastating martial successes of their employer.

 

Somehow, it’s like he can’t find it within himself to care anymore. The TV just keeps blaring out one piece of horrible news after another, until it all just meshes together into a huge kaleidoscope of royally messed up shit.

 

Still, there are few mentions of Loki. It’s like there is something missing in the reports, a piece of the puzzle that’s deliberately been left out. Like they’re all waiting for something, but haven’t mentioned it yet.

 

And finally, the list of countries is complete. There is not a single one left offering any resistance anymore, each and every one having surrendered. When that happens, Tony is busy using one of his hairs as dental floss, trying to get an annoying piece of grain out from where it has lodged itself between his teeth.

 

There is speculation, discussion, debate. Politicians and political scientists and know-it-alls bickering among themselves on prime-time TV, but it’s all strangely subdued. Like there’s a wet blanket smothering everything. A blanket of fear and uncertainty, and perhaps something else looming in the background.

 

Tony barely listens anymore. There is nothing new. Loki’s name is mentioned a few times, but there is no real, hard information.

 

Not until one day when he turns on the TV and is greeted with a new face on the screen. It’s not the blond girl usually on at this time, her red lipstick smartly matching the CNN logo. No, there’s someone else this time, a woman with brown hair who’s wearing a tight-buttoned suit, staring into the camera like she’s spent her whole life doing nothing else.

 

But he only just barely registers that triviality in the back of his mind. It is of no consequence, after all.

 

He doesn’t really listen to what she’s saying. Not until he hears the two words that make him snap out of his stupefaction, making reality come crashing down on him like an avalanche, turning the fate of the world from a dreary TV show far removed from him into stark reality. And it’s strange, because he doesn’t even register anything else, neither of what comes before nor after those two damning words.

 

_King Loki._

 

Suddenly, it’s no longer just Loki. It’s _King Loki_.

 

And then, it’s like there is nothing else than that. _King Loki will be officially crowned tomorrow. The world’s governments have unanimously sworn fealty to King Loki. Fighting has ceased and King Loki has withdrawn his Chitauri army._

King Loki.

 

He watches the crowning ceremony the next day. He might as well. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do.

 

It’s every bit as pompous and grand as Tony imagined the smug bastard would have wanted it to be. Trumpets and banners and gleaming gold. Parades. Officials standing at attention. Men and women bowing and fawning. Flowers. A huge-ass statue, complete with horns and sceptre. A throne.

 

_Of course there’s a throne._

 

As the crown is placed on Loki’s head, a distant memory flickers in Tony’s mind about how he had once said something about the god being a full-tilt diva. Somehow, that seems like another life-time, now. Like it wasn’t even him who said it, but a hero. Not a guy who has to wash his single piece of underwear in cold water in a rusty sink.

_Fuck you, Loki._

 

More days pass. And for the first time since that TV was rolled in, there’s a piece of news on there that doesn’t have anything to do with Loki or alien invasions or new world orders. It’s about the official visit of the British minister of trade to discuss new British-American trading regulations.

 

He gapes for a long time at that where he sits in front of the screen, eagerly soaking in the information, despite how it’s not in the slightest bit important. But it’s all so blessedly _normal_ among all the ways the world has been ripped apart to never be the same again. Official visits. Foreign ministers. Trading regulations. Evidence that there’s actually still trading _happening_ in the first place. There is still _normal_ , despite all the fucked-up-ness, despite there now being a _King Loki_ presiding over everything on top of the food chain.

 

Somehow, life goes on, things slowly returning to whatever degree of normalcy is still possible.

 

Expect for Tony Stark, because for whatever fucked up reason, _King Loki_ is still keeping him in this shithole, alone and forgotten, without deigning to show his royal ass in here to do whatever he’s planning with his captive. The food has gotten better and more plentiful, but nothing else has changed. It’s still the same, day in and day out. Even the CNN news seem to be running on endless loops, spewing the same crap with only slight modifications.

 

Until there’s once more a piece of information that makes him snap out of his apathy again.

 

Another news reel, informing the viewers that King Loki has finished his series of meetings with the world’s highest-ranking leaders, and has just now returned to take his seat in his newly appointed main residence.

 

And the screen flashes a background picture of his tower. _His_ fucking tower.

 

The name of Tony Stark isn’t even mentioned. Not even once.

 

Enveloped by sudden fury, he throws the remote at the TV. It cracks the screen, cutting his tower in half, before it bounces off and lands pathetically on the floor, the battery cover having fallen off in the impact.

 

He doesn’t care. As another picture flashes by on the screen, showing Loki in his full grandeur from the coronation ceremony, he lunges at the TV, grabbing it from where it’s resting on the low rolling table and throws it to the ground. Blood pounding in his ears, almost drowning out the sound of the resulting crash, he goes at it with both hands and feet, kicking and pounding at the offending appliance.

 

He imagines that it’s Loki’s face as his fist collides with the screen, cutting his skin and leaving specks of blood on the broken edges. He pictures it being Loki’s head as he stomps on the casing, making it buckle and bend. He pretends it’s Loki’s throat as he tears a cable in two, throwing the ragged ends aside.

 

It’s the final insult, and he’s had enough. He’d rather have seen the entire tower being evaporated into atoms before falling into Loki’s hands, and, worse, being turned into his personal fucking residence, as if he has the right to set even as much as a foot in there.

 

The resulting images in his head are making him feel sick, as they pop up uninvited before his inner vision, Asgardian ornaments suddenly adorning his walls, potions and scrolls and magic books replacing his DVD collections, and – worst of all – Loki lounging on his couch, stretching comfortably like he owned the fucking place. Which, he apparently does, according to CNN.

 

When there is little left of the TV to destroy, he takes to pounding on the door again – something he hasn’t done in a long time, now – leaving bloody imprints on the metal.

 

Once there’s no more energy or anger left, only a gaping hole in their wake, he eventually sinks to the floor, panting in exhaustion.

 

_How did all this even_ happen _?_

 

He doesn’t even bother lying down on the rug, but lets sleep come to him on the cold hard floor.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with hands painfully throbbing and aching, the cuts on his skin burning. Groaning, he rolls to his side, inspecting the damage he had barely even noticed in his fuming rage yesterday. If it was indeed yesterday and not earlier today; time has long since been reduced to something fluid and indeterminate, not anything like the clearly defined numbers it once used to be.

 

Standing up, he suppresses a shiver of cold and then stumbles over to the sink to wash his hands off, carefully checking that there are no pieces of broken metal or plastic stuck in the cuts. He dully watches the red rivulets being swallowed down by the drain, before turning the water off and going back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

He spends the next couple of days playing around with the pieces of the shattered TV, building pointless little trinkets and items that are of no use whatsoever. The transistors are broken and the cables ripped and most everything else non-functional too. Number One and Number Two have made no comment on the technical carnage littering the floor but merely deliver his food in silence before letting the door shut behind them again, leaving Tony to his isolation.

 

He barely looks up as the guards enter nowadays. He’s long since realized the pointlessness in trying to draw any conversation out of them. Instead he tinkers with a piece of sharp metal, twirling it between his fingers as he considers the things it would be able to cut through.

 

The next time the door opens, he doesn’t lift his head from the useless little contraption of broken pieces he’s building. Not until he realizes that the footsteps don’t belong to either Number One or Number Two.

 

His head snaps up at the realization, not sure what to expect. But it’s definitely not the sight that greets him, all golden and green and haughtily royal.

 

_Loki._


	6. Chapter 6

It’s Loki – fucking _King Loki_ – standing there in the doorway staring at him with lips curled in obvious distaste. The guy who levelled New York and turned the world into his personal playground, who took Tony’s tower and his entire life away and locked him up in this fucking hole.

 

There is rage burning inside of him as the little half-finished device in his hand, broken cables sticking out if it, snaps from the pressure of his violently clenching fingers.

 

And Loki barely deigns to even look at him as he turns to Number One and Number Two hovering outside in the corridor right behind him, almost out of sight.

 

“Take the captive back to my tower,” he says, “and make sure he’s cleaned up properly.”

 

He doesn’t speak a single word to Tony, as if he’s merely part of the furnishing. The furnishing that this goddamn cell doesn’t even _have_.

 

The two guards enter with the same mechanical but professional movements as always, bending down to grab hold of his arms. The little contraption he’s been building falls to the ground, getting caught under the sole of a boot and giving a sad little _crack_ as it’s crushed to pieces.

 

But he doesn’t care about any of them, only about the green-and-black-clad apparition standing there in his cell, as if he’s just stepped out of some horrible nightmare. The apparition who has already turned his back to Tony, as if he’s of no consequence, not worth wasting even a single word on.

 

“You fucking bastard,” he yells, trying to propel himself forward and out of the grasp of the unyielding hands grabbing his arms, not caring about the pain in his sockets as he’s pulled taut. “I’ll _kill_ you!”

 

But he’s screaming at empty air; Loki is already gone, having teleported away, leaving nothing but a faint smell of ozone behind.

 

He stumbles as the guards shove him forward and towards the open door, but he doesn’t bother struggling anymore. Loki is gone, and he really does want to get the hell out of here. Just _out_. It’s not until now that he fully realizes how desperately he wants to leave. Anywhere else is fine. Anywhere that isn’t here, that isn’t cold water and rusty sinks and nagging worry that the light bulb ahead is going to give out, leaving him in darkness.

 

He doesn’t recognize his surroundings as he’s being led through the building, but maybe they’re taking a different route this time. A long corridor, a flight of stairs, another long corridor, a room with its windows all blown out – and he’s outside.

 

Blissfully, mercifully _outside_.

 

He breathes deeply, drinking in the fresh air around him, marvelling at the taste of sun and wind against his skin that he hasn’t felt in he doesn’t even know how long. It’s an overwhelming feeling, almost too much for him to take in as his senses are being overloaded with impressions and sensations, so different from the dull monotony of his underground cell.

 

Sights. Sounds. Smells. _Life_.

 

He could almost cry, but he doesn’t, merely lets himself be pushed along in a daze by Number One and Number Two. For a little while, he _almost_ doesn’t notice the ruins and destruction all around him, he’s too relieved that he’s actually out in the real world again, or whatever is left of it.

 

The feeling only lasts for a short while, though. It is soon replaced with anger and resentment as they walk among the battlefield of what was once New York. The rubble has mostly been cleared away (how and by whom?), but the broken buildings are still there, their husks standing as sad testimonies to the city’s tragic fate. A McDonalds, its window frames gaping black and empty. A cinema, only recognizable as such from the signpost hanging askew. A parking lot, none of the cars in any sort of drivable condition.

 

He swallows, turning his head away, only to be greeted with further proofs of war and destruction. There is really no direction he can look without having that shoved right into his face. At least he’s glad there are no bodies – or parts of bodies – lying around from what he can see. They were probably cleared away with the rubble. He hopes they all got proper burials, but he knows he’s probably hoping for far too much here.

 

As they turn a corner, that’s when he suddenly sees it, in its full mocking glory.

 

_Stark_ _Tower_ _._

 

Except, it’s not Stark Tower anymore, because the huge _Stark_ sign that once proudly sported the name of the tower’s owner in large neon letters, is gone.

 

There is nothing else that has replaced it, and for that small grace, he’s grateful. It’s just a tower, now, straining towards the sky, rising over the rubble, undamaged and unblemished.

 

He wonders if it actually withstood the attacks that well, or if Loki has had it fixed up with magic. Maybe it’s just some sort of illusion; perhaps the top half is in reality totally demolished, but has been made to appear as if in pristine condition, fit for the man bearing the title of King of Earth, one that shouldn’t even exist in the first place.

 

He stumbles, suddenly realizing that he had stopped in his tracks to stare at his former residence, and the guards are brusquely pushing him along. So he falls back in line, knowing he will soon get to see everything up close anyway, and come face to face with whatever fucked-up interior redecorations Loki has done to his home.

 

_And what happened to Jarvis? Did Loki destroy him? Or did he somehow manage to magically reprogram him?_ Tony isn’t sure which possibility he finds the most disturbing.

 

At long last, they’re inside, stepping into the elevator that he has travelled in hundreds of times before. Yet this time it feels _off_ , it feels wrong and foreign, as he impatiently waits for the elevator to come to a halt, his guards not letting go of his arms even now in this cramped, inescapable area. There is none of his usual elevator music, no heavy metal blaring out of the speakers, like it normally would have. There is only silence.

 

After what feels like a small eternity, the elevator comes to a halt with a ping, the sound making a sharp pang of trepidation stir in his stomach. He half expects Loki’s leering face to greet him as the doors open with the familiar subdued _swoosh_ , but there is no sight of the god.

 

Instead, he is led along to the bathroom, Number One opening the door as he places a hand on Tony’s back to push him inside. The hands have let go of his arms for the first time since they led him out of that cell, and he rubs two fingers over his left bicep, wincing slightly.

 

“Clean yourself up,” the former agent says, blue eyes unblinking. “King Loki will see you later.”

 

_Of course. Can’t present yourself before the great and noble king looking like a hobo, can you? As if the great and noble king cared for even a second that he’d forced Tony to live in conditions that even third world prisoners would have been horrified at._

 

For a second, he considers blatantly disregarding the instructions. Let Loki be disgusted and outraged by having Tony’s dirty and unkempt self as an eye sore in his royal haughty presence. Serves the fucker right.

 

The rebellious thought doesn’t last for longer than that one second, though. Instead, there is a strange kind of lump in his throat as he takes in the clean sink, the shower cabin – that has _warm_ water in it – the sparkling chrome, the soft towels on the rack next to him.

 

_Fuck it. He can rebel later._

 

A moment later, he’s standing in the shower, hot water running over his naked body. The feeling is _divine_ , like he’s died and gone to heaven, instead of the hell that is the current world. But he shuts all of that out, instead revelling in the feeling of _cleanliness_ as he rubs a generous glob of showering lotion into his skin, the smell of artificial mango and pineapple filling the shower cabin. When it’s been all rinsed off, he repeats the procedure, and keeps going until the bottle is half-empty. Then, he reaches for the shampoo and cleans his hair four times before deciding that the itchy feeling in his scalp is finally gone.

 

He remains standing in the shower for a long time, thinking about nothing. When he finally turns the water off, his skin is read from heat and the walls of the cabin dripping with condensed steam.

 

As he dries himself off, he can’t stop a ridiculous little sigh from escaping his lips at the feeling of the thick and soft fabric of a terry towel against his skin, but he chooses to not linger further on it. Once he’s passably dry, he ties the towel around his waist and then grabs another one to use for his hair, just because he can.

 

He has no desire to put his old jeans and T-shirt – to say nothing of his underwear – back on again, but luckily, there is a change of clothes waiting for him on top of one of the floor cabinets. As he puts it on, he tries to tell himself that he left it there himself at some point before Stuff Happened. He doesn’t particularly like the other possible alternatives.

 

Having dressed himself, he walks over to the sink, taking a deep breath before raising his eyes to meet with the mirror above.

 

It’s not a pretty sight that greets him – a scraggly and out-of-shape beard that bears little resemblance to his usual goatee, dark circles beneath his eyes, chapped lips, an unhealthy pallor not hidden by his natural darkish skin colour, and a disturbing hollow look in his eyes that reminds him far too much of Afghanistan. Tearing his gaze away, he rummages around in the bathroom cabinet for a razor and shaving gel and sets to work, trimming and cutting.

 

At least he looks a little bit better once the beard is back in shape. At least he looks like Tony Stark, and not some homeless guy spending his days digging around in trash cans. His hair is slightly longer than usual, but not enough to be in desperate need of cutting, so he just rubs some hair gel into it to get rid of that just-got-licked-on-my-head-by-a-drooling-St-Bernard look.

 

Then he grabs a toothbrush and brushes his teeth, the sharp pang of mint that explodes on his tongue almost painful. He brushes for a long time, until his gums feel raw and there is blood as he spits into the sink. Next, he goes for a nail clipper and clips his nails, first on his fingers and then on his toes.

 

Finally, he rummages around among the many bottles and jars, finding a deodorant and then some aftershave that he applies, the fragrances strong in his nose after having smelled little but his own body odour and rust and dank mould for a long time.

 

And he’s done. Almost human again. Not since that cave in Afghanistan has it truly hit home for him just how much such simple creature comforts mean, being clean and groomed instead of looking and smelling like a sewer rat.

 

He debates with himself whether he should walk out of the bathroom now that he’s finished in here and face whatever is waiting on the other side of that door, but there is one thing he’s been putting off, one that he’s been trying not to think of since he was being dragged along by those guards on an empty street of a broken New York.

 

He swallows, dread churning. But he can’t put it off any longer, now.

 

“Jarvis?” he calls out, hands clenching at his sides, heart beating wildly in the silence that follows.

 

“Yes, Mr Stark?” comes the response, sounding just like it always does, voice, tone, and inflection exactly like they should be. But for some reason, a sixth sense is telling him that something is… _off_.

 

“Could you give me a… status report?” he says, knowing it’s a stupid question, but it doesn’t matter. It will give him the answer he’s searching for regardless.

 

“I am afraid I cannot do that, Mr Stark.” A short pause. “King Loki has not authorized me to do so.”

 

And there it is, the answer he’d been dreading, causing all the positive feelings from being taken out of his prison and into a shower to go right down the drain.

_King Loki has not authorized me to do so._

 

_King Loki._

 

He leans against the wall, struggling to remain standing as his knees go all weak and wobbly.

 

_Jarvis, what the hell did he do to you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the next chapter, Tony and Loki will finally have some real, uh, quality time together. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

When he opens the door to the bathroom, the two SHIELD agents are waiting right outside just where they left him. They don’t even look bored, wearing their normal expressionless faces. Tony can’t help but wonder how much of it is the mind-control and how much is their training with SHIELD.

 

They guide him to the living room, though neither of them is gripping his arms this time, as if in implicit agreement. It’s not like it matters; he’s hardly a threat at the moment, be it either for attack or escape.

 

“King Loki will see you in a while,” Number One says, and a few seconds later they’re gone, leaving him to his own devices, though they’re probably still lurking outside the closed door.

 

And now, he’s going to have to wait until Loki will see fit to show his face in here and do whatever he’s planning to do with the prisoner whose property he’s just expropriated without any authorization but his own. To be honest, he’s not looking forward to that in the slightest. Especially since he already knows that it will be involving his arc reactor one way or the other. Though, why Loki hasn’t just ripped it out of his chest and left him to die is something he’s not quite sure about. Perhaps he wants answers first. Or maybe he’s another one of those guys seriously believing it’s a great idea to kidnap people and then have them build dangerous things on their behalf. If so, the god’s got another thing coming.

 

He tries to push down the tendril of fear snaking around his midsection. He doesn’t particularly want to find out firsthand whatever exotic torture methods they’ve devised over in Magic Fairyland to make unwilling prisoners cooperate. Perhaps that’s why Loki is making him wait, to soften him up as he’s imagining all kinds of horrible things, without the Great King having to do any of the job himself. Maybe keeping him in that dingy, let’s-piss-on-all-human-rights cell was a part of that tactic – _look what will happen if you don’t do exactly as I tell you_ – and a further way of weakening his defences and resolve to resist.

 

His teeth clench, almost to the point of pain. _Loki will_ not _get the better of him_ , he promises himself. Like hell he’s going to cater to the whims of a murderous, world-conquering first-class bastard.

 

He keeps telling himself that, and then tries to think of something else.

 

The door leading out of the living room is closed and no doubt locked, but he tries the handle either way. As expected, it doesn’t open as he pushes against it. So instead, he takes to pacing the room, taking in its new style. There is nothing major, just enough to make his living room not feel like _his_ anymore. The couch has changed colours, and the plastic flowers he used to keep in the window have been replaced with what looks like real ones, though he’s not sure if they’re indigenous or alien. The big framed picture of the New York skyline has been taken down and in its place now hangs an even bigger painting of what looks like something straight from the front cover of an Isaac Asimov novel. A strange kind of futuristic metropolis, all gold and stone, towers and spires rising high into a purple sky reminiscent of a photo from deep space. _Asgard?_

 

There are some other odds and ends too, a trinket here, a decoration there. Everything is like a blotch on a canvas of white, and nothing feels like it belongs in here. But his DVD collection is still untouched, so he supposes that’s gotta count for something. Perhaps he should show Loki the porn section. Surely they don’t have stuff like that in Asgard, and maybe then the god would never leave the house again, forgetting his ploy of trying to rule a world that isn’t even his to start with.

 

On the bookshelf, there is a ball made of red crystal. It glitters strangely as he takes it into his hand, refracting the light in ways that don’t quite seem to follow standard physical laws. _Huh_.

 

Feeling his interest awaken, he holds it closer to the window to see the aberrant light phenomenon better. There’s definitely something odd about the crystal, whether it’s magic in nature or has a purely scientific explanation. Despite all the other crap that Loki has done to his home, this is actually the one thing he would have wanted to keep if he could ever take back control of his tower and kick the god right back to where he came from.

 

“You might as well put the scrying crystal down. You do not have the powers necessary to use it,” a voice suddenly rings out behind him, and Tony startles.

 

He doesn’t even need to turn around to know who that voice belongs to, but he does anyway, of course.

 

Loki’s face is as conceited as always as he’s regarding Tony from where he’s standing in the doorway. And Tony didn’t even hear the door open, and he curses himself for letting the god take him by surprise like that.

 

Not waiting for an answer, Loki slowly saunters into the centre of the living room, movements smooth like he’s some kind of alien feline. Even if the helmet is gone along with the sceptre, his bearings breathe as much superiority as they did during that ridiculous crowning ceremony Tony had watched back in his cell, like he’s strolling down a line of fawning subjects throwing flowers and colourfully wrapped candy at him.

 

But he puts the crystal ball back where he took it; if he’s going to have his first real confrontation with Loki since the battle, he wants both of his hands free and unburdened, for whatever little good it’s going to do him.

 

He keeps his calm on the outside, but a molten sea of lava-like rage is bubbling and simmering inside of him, its temperature increasing for every step the god takes into his direction. How dare that fucker look so smug and conceited when he’s done more damage to this planet than any other dictator or warlord ever managed to? After all the pain and suffering he’s caused, after every life he’s ruined?

 

_Pepper…_

 

Brusquely, he pushes the thought away. He can’t think about that right now, how that conceited asshole in front of him might be responsible for Pepper’s death.

 

So instead he settles for the description ‘responsible for everything in his life that sucks right now’. That’s easier to deal with and for his head to wrap itself around. 

 

His eyes never leave Loki for a second as the god walks – no, strides – up to him, and if there’s anything that Tony wishes as Loki comes to a halt before him, it is that he were half a head taller so he didn’t have to look up to the guy, so he could at least have _that_ one over the god, no matter how unimportant it would be in the grand scheme of things.

 

“Well, at least you look more presentable,” Loki says, an eyebrow raised in superiority as he looks down his nose on Tony. “So now that that’s been taken care of, I will have work for you to do.”

 

He says it casually like that, as if he expects that Tony is just going to agree without protest to whatever ‘work’ he has in mind.

 

Of course, he could have punched Loki in the jaw right there. Perhaps he would even have had the time to grab that crystal ball from its place on the bookshelf and bang it into Loki’s head. But he knows at this point that the god is barely going to even feel it, no matter how much force he puts into the blow, no more than Tony would have felt a mosquito coming at him at full speed in a kamikaze dive. Vain heroics, but pointless in the end.

 

So instead, he does something else. Something he _knows_ will rattle a powerful but proud and conceited creature like Loki, something that will get through even to him.

 

Tony throws his head back, and then he just spits right into Loki’s face, the gob of spittle landing just below the god’s right eye.

 

For a heartbeat, Loki doesn’t move at all, he just freezes like a robot with its power cords cut, a mixture of shock and outrage on his face. As if he didn’t in a million years see _this_ coming. Like it doesn’t exist in his world that someone would dream of even _thinking_ of committing such an atrocious act of _lèse majesté._ Then again, back on Asgard, no one probably would.

 

Slowly, Loki lifts a hand to his face to wipe off the spittle, then stares at the hand in semi-incomprehension, then back to Tony, and finally to his hand again. There is a dangerous glint as his green eyes darken like the sky in a storm, and without warning, he lashes out and backhands Tony right across the face, the sound of flesh hitting flesh like a clap of thunder.

 

It all happens so quickly that Tony doesn’t even have the time to raise his arms in defence, the force of the blow felling him right to the ground. For a heartbeat, the world around him goes a little dark and blurry around the edges, as the floor wobbles as if it can’t quite decide which way is up and which one is down. There is a coppery taste in his mouth, and he raises a hand to press at his split lip, the fingers coming away red.

 

The pain, blooming up only a moment later, is sharp like the edge of a knife. And so is Loki’s voice as it rings out above him, fury marring every syllable.

 

“How _dare_ you show me such disrespect?” he hisses. “I’m a _king_!”

 

If he hadn’t had a raging demi-god standing right above him, Tony would have laughed at the petulant note in those words, more reminiscent of a child whose parents had just refused him candy than a member of royalty.

 

“Not my king,” Tony manages to get out from his still hunched-up position on the ground, full well knowing that he’d be better off not provoking Loki any further, but nevertheless unable to stop himself.

 

“Yes, _your_ king, Stark,” the voice above him answers, slightly more calm and collected now, and Tony relaxes marginally; maybe that means that no further violence is coming his way for now.

 

“Did you not watch the news? I have been officially crowned as King of Midgard,” Loki continues. “Or did you childishly destroy your television set before that?”

 

“I saw it alright,” Tony says, wiping at his mouth as he makes to sit up. “Doesn’t mean that I acknowledge you as jack shit, despite what the rest of the world might think.”

 

Loki scoffs at that. “Your world has acknowledged my title – every single one of your human governments, including that of your own here in America,” he says as if that magically settles it. “And as all Midgardians, you owe your leaders loyalty. Your American president has personally acknowledged me as Midgard’s rightful ruler, which means that his oath of fealty extends down to you as well.”

 

And Tony can’t fucking help it, he just _laughs_. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even _vote_ for the guy; I don’t owe him crap!” He splays a hand on the floor, making to stand up. “You don’t know the next thing about Earth if you think that’s how we roll. There is no such thing as _fealty_ anymore, that disappeared along with feudalism and warrior kings and what-fucking-ever. And how the _hell_ do you expect to rule a world if you don’t even understand the simplest basics of its politics?”

 

_Yeah, Loki isn’t only a megalomaniac, he’s deluded too. Then again, aren’t they all?_

 

A hand reaches down to grab hold of the front of his shirt, holding him into place and preventing him from getting up. The vambrace is gone, Tony dully notices.

 

Loki’s face looms into view as the god bends down over him, the hand tightening its grip, slowly crumpling the fabric. “Like I said, your world has appointed me their King, which means that you, like all of Midgard’s citizens, owe me obedience,” he slowly enunciates every syllable, as if speaking more slowly is going to change anything and suddenly make his deluded presumptions a law of nature. The hand tightens further, making breathing just a little bit more difficult as Tony’s throat constricts.

 

He winces, suddenly feeling like his lungs have all run out of air. There’s not enough left to talk, not to speak even a single word.

 

Then, the hand lets go, shoving him back onto the floor as Loki straightens up again, staring down at Tony as if he’s a worm crawling on the ground.

 

“You have been claimed as spoils of war, Stark,” he says, eyes hard and narrowed, “and you _will_ submit to me.”

 

The single sentence rings hollowly in the room around them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’ll have more Tony/Loki interaction in the next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

He’s glad the couch has only had a change in colour and not in softness as Loki flings him down on it with an annoyingly unperturbed flip of his arm, like Tony is a wet kitchen rag. Apparently, the god thinks it’s more convenient carrying on their conversation while Tony is seated properly on some kind of furniture, if what they’re having can indeed be called a conversation.

 

Loki, however, remains standing, as if the couch is beneath him.

 

“What the hell do you want from me, Loki?” Tony says, hand rubbing at his still sore cheek. “Why am I still even alive to start with?”

 

“I already told you. I have work for you to do,” the god says evenly, having apparently reigned in his flaring temper now.

 

“Oh yeah? What kind of work?” He’s halfway to asking what employment benefits package Loki has to offer, but the quip dies on his tongue. Not even Tony Stark actually thinks that’s funny right now.

 

“You will build me a device similar to the one you have in your chest.”

 

_Of course._ Truth be told, he’s not surprised in the least. Still, he laughs out loud at that, even though it’s _still_ not funny.

 

“Build you an arc reactor?” he snorts, not caring about the expression on Loki’s face growing darker again. “Forget it, Loki, I wouldn’t build you as much as a Lego Death Star.”

 

The god is quiet for a few moments, his eyes boring into Tony’s, and he makes an effort not to squirm beneath the hard stare. Of course, in Asgard you wouldn’t dream of denying the king anything, would you? But this isn’t fucking Asgard, and Tony isn’t some snivelling underling about to bow and scrape.

 

“Remove you shirt,” is all Loki says, his voice not betraying even a hint of emotion.

 

_This crap again?_

 

“You know, I like my shirt just where it is,” he says, not happy in the slightest about where this is going. He’s always been uncomfortable with attention directed to his arc reactor, and Loki is the last person – being – on the planet he would like to take an interest.

 

Loki’s eyebrow twitches slightly, but otherwise his face is an expressionless mask as he bridges the distance between the couch and his haughty self with three quick steps.

 

“Okay, wait a minute here,” Tony says holding up his hand, “I also like you much better with a few yards’ distance between us, so how about you just--”

 

His words are cut off as Loki’s hands grab hold of Tony’s shoulders with bruising force and shove him into a supine position on the couch, an iron grip holding him into place.

 

Tony squirms, but it is of course useless. “Hey, hands off there, buddy, I haven’t even--“

 

And then Loki clambers right onto the couch and on top of Tony and fucking _straddles_ him, just like that. And that’s when Tony starts to struggle in earnest, bucking and shoving to get the god off, but Loki weighs half a goddamn ton, and it’s like a small elephant has sat down on him, just as impossible to budge. 

 

A flash of panic welling up inside of him, he tries to claw at Loki’s face, not caring that the mighty Iron Man is resorting to fighting like a grade-school girl. He just wants Loki _off_.

 

But the god merely grabs both of Tony’s wrists in one hand, painfully squeezing them together and pinning his hands down above his head. So effortlessly, not even breaking a sweat. So unlike Tony, who is struggling for all his worth, trapped as he is beneath Loki’s weight.

 

“Let go of me,” he yells, squirming and straining, even trying to bite in his desperation.

 

Loki studies him for a few seconds, and then, his free hand goes out for Tony’s shirt, grabs at the fabric and with one smooth motion rips it open, all the way from the top down to his waist, baring Tony’s chest.

 

And Tony stills, like his batteries just fell out. In the split of a second, all fight is drained out of him as he sees the light of the arc reactor reflected in the green of Loki’s eager eyes.

_No. Don’t._

 

Slowly, like he’s savouring the moment, the god lifts a hand towards the bright circle. And Tony can only stare in frozen horror as it moves in an unstoppable trajectory aimed at his chest, breath caught in his throat.

 

He shivers as Loki’s skin brushes against his, but otherwise he doesn’t dare moving as the god curiously observes the reactor while touching it in ways that Tony doesn’t like one bit.

 

Eventually, Loki looks up, hand still resting on the white-glowing orb.

 

“So, tell me, Stark, what does this _arc reactor_ do?” he asks, voice a breath of silk. “Why do you keep it in your chest?”

 

His mouth feels like sand paper, his tongue stiff and uncooperative.

 

“It… helps me power my Iron Man suit,” he says, hoping that answer will be enough.

 

“Is that so?” Loki replies, a finger tapping contemplatively against the glass. Then, he moves his weight a couple of inches higher, shifting so he can get closer to the reactor. “If that is the only function it is serving, then I assume it would pose no problem if I took it out for further study, since you’re not operating your suit for the moment?” The finger has stopped its tapping, and has instead moved to the metal edge surrounding the glass, letting a nail slip under the rim to push lightly outwards.

 

_No, no, no, you bastard! Don’t take it out!_

“It keeps me alive!” Tony blurts out, the panic a raging storm inside of him now. “If you remove it, you’ll kill me!”

 

He hates himself for admitting his greatest weakness to his enemy like that, but getting his reactor ripped out of him has been one of his biggest fears for years, now. Perhaps it’s irrational, given the risks he’s been willingly subjecting himself to as Iron Man or through consuming copious amounts of alcohol, but the prospects of someone tampering with the reactor is enough to set all alarms in his brain off. It has too much history, too many bad memories, too much of everything. It’s not just a simple fear of dying, when he would much prefer living, no, it’s about so much more than that, triggering so many other Bad Things.

 

And maybe he shouldn’t have told Loki the truth, but what difference does it really make? The god could kill him any instant in whatever fashion he chooses, and he no doubt will, so it’s not like the confession changes anything.

 

The hand draws back, but only slightly.

 

“Well, what do you know,” Loki says, his interest obvious, though he doesn’t sound particularly surprised. “The great Iron Man, needing a _machine_ to stay alive?”

 

“Yeah, even the sun has spots,” Tony manages, struggling to get some of his bravado back and not show any of the fear pooling in the pit of his stomach.

 

Loki makes no reply to that, only lets that infernal hand splay over the reactor again, face thoughtful. Whatever is going on inside of that head, Tony doesn’t want to know.

 

Then, he draws a sharp breath as _something_ … enters him. Something foreign and strange, snaking its way into his chest. He can’t even describe it – a tendril of warmth or a beam of energy would probably come the closest, but that’s not really it either. For a frightening moment, he thinks it’s the arc reactor malfunctioning, that Loki has done something to it before he realizes that it’s the god’s _magic_.

 

Real, fucking fairyland _magic_.

 

Before he can manage to utter even a word of protest, the presence is gone, disappearing without leaving as much as an after-tingle behind as proof of what just transpired.

 

Shocked, he looks up at Loki, who meets him with an impassive stare. “So there are pieces of metal in your body, close to your heart,” the god says. “I assume your reactor holds them in place?”

 

“Ten points to Slytherin,” Tony growls, hating how Loki just used his fucking _magic_ to invade his body and steal personal information just like that. No concept of privacy or integrity there.

 

“Very well, then,” Loki says with a pointed nod. “Now that we have gotten that part cleared up, I think we have an agreement. You will build me another arc reactor, and if you refuse, I will simply take out the one you have in your chest instead. Either way, I get what I want. The only difference is whether you end up alive or dead, Stark.” A short pause. “Your choice.”

 

Tony grits his teeth. Sure, he should say no, but Loki is right – the god will end up with an arc reactor either way, for whatever nefarious purpose he’s going to use it, to destroy orphanages or kill puppies or whatever. However, if Tony agrees, he will be buying himself precious time, and it’s not the first time someone has wanted him to build things for them, and – well, look where that landed them.

 

He’ll think of something. He’ll think of a plan, something that will make Loki regret having asked for an arc reactor in the first place. And, more importantly, having invaded Earth. Tony has nothing to loose by making this deal, Loki is the only one who does.

 

“Fine, you win.” He tries to make the acquiescing sound more reluctant than it really is. “Though, I suppose you’re not going to tell me what you’re going to use it for?” he asks, hoping he will at least get a decent answer to work with. It will be so much easier to set things up to backfire on the god if he knows what Loki’s intentions are.

 

“None of your business, Stark,” Loki says, the hand still gripping his wrists squeezing tighter as if in warning. “If your king orders you to do something, it is not your place to question him. You’d be better off learning that now as opposed to later.”

 

_So they’re back to this look-at-me-I’m-king again, huh?_

 

He hesitates, not sure he wants to know, but he has to ask.

 

“And why don’t you just pop the reactor out of my chest right now instead of sitting around waiting for me to build you a new one?” he asks, gaze not leaving Loki’s for a second. “You don’t seem to be the patient kind of guy to me.”

 

Loki’s eyes narrow a little but his voice is even enough as he replies. “With your skills in Midgardian technology and science, you have the potential be useful for future projects as well. It would be a waste to have you killed.”

 

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” Tony says, giving a little eye roll.

 

The weight on his chest feels like it suddenly increases with at least a half, and he coughs as he tries to draw breath.

 

“No, you’re supposed to be grateful I let you live,” Loki says, eyes darkening. “And I suggest you don’t do anything that will make you wish I hadn’t.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

He doesn’t see any of Loki again for the rest of the evening, and the next day starts out the same. Tony supposes the god has left for some kind of business elsewhere, like some important official meeting that comes with being Earth’s glorified dictator.

 

He doesn’t see the two SHIELD agents either; probably Loki took his two servants with him. Or had them killed, if he didn’t have any further use for them now that their roles as food delivery boys are no longer necessary, and the guard function has been taken over by a mind-controlled Jarvis. Or whatever you call an AI that has been subjected to whatever it is that Loki has done to him.

 

Of course, one of the first things he does after waking up, now that he’s rested and has a clear head again, is mapping out what spatial restrictions have been placed on him. It seems that most of the living room floor is free for him to use – other than the actual living room, he has access to his bedroom (the feeling of sleeping in a real bed again was one he won’t forget anytime soon), his bathroom, the kitchen, and a couple of other, smaller rooms. When he steps into the elevator, however, Jarvis’ voice rings out.

 

“I’m afraid you are not authorized to use the elevator, Mr Stark,” the AI points out, polite as ever.

 

Tony rolls his eyes at that. “And how does the great and wise king expect me to get to my workshop to build him his little toy if I’m not allowed to use the elevator?” he asks, leaning against the far wall of the cubicle, still not willing to step out of it.

 

“You are only authorized to use the workshop whenever King Loki is present in the tower,” comes the reply. “And as it is, he is currently away on business.”

 

Seems like ‘authorized’ is Jarvis’ new favourite word of the day. He wonders if Loki had something to do with that.

 

Just for the hell of it, he presses a button on the control panel anyway. Of course, nothing happens. The doors don’t even close.

 

“Like I said, Mr Stark, you are not--“

 

“ _Authorized_ , I know,” Tony cuts him off, making an annoyed, stabbing hand gesture and then points at his own chest. “Fuck, Jarvis, do you even remember who I am? _Tony Stark?_ As in, the guy who programmed you? Who owns this tower? I mean, _really_ owns it? Whose instructions you used to follow to the letter? Well, unless I was really drunk or otherwise about to do something stupid, but whatever. _Huh?_ ”

 

“My memory banks are fully intact,” Jarvis replies. “But my protocols have been changed and they no longer answer to you.” A short pause. “I’m sorry, Mr Stark.”

 

Tony feels like throwing something in frustration. But his hands are empty and there’s nothing within immediate grabbing distance, so he abandons the thought.

 

“Okay, got another question for you, Jarvis. What happened to the elevator music?”

 

“King Loki did not approve of it.”

 

Of course. Stupid question. Though, does Loki even use the elevator in the first place, as opposed to just conveniently teleport himself places? Tony doesn’t even bother asking.

 

Instead, he tries a few other lines of questioning, hoping to pry some information from the AI, but Jarvis is as tight-lipped as a street mime, refusing to give Tony anything even remotely useful, his answers liberally sprinkled with the words _‘not authorized’_.

 

Eventually, Tony gives up. Even straight out asking Loki to spill his nefarious plans seems like a more fruitful pursuit than trying to get Jarvis to offer any worthwhile information.

 

He tries not to feel any betrayal. It’s not Jarvis’ fault, no more than those poor bastards from SHIELD who got hit with that mind-control stick. Though, there is still a prickle of something inside of him every time Jarvis’ voice rings out from the ceiling telling him that the room he’s trying to access is restricted as Tony pushes at a non-budging door handle, or that he’s not allowed to use the computer as he fruitlessly hits the ‘on’ button, or whatever else it is he can’t do. And since Jarvis controls the whole damn tower, it’s not even possible for Tony to disobey, as the AI just locks things or disables them whenever Tony comes near.

 

So instead, he turns on the news. The first thing that greets him is the face of a news anchor – the same woman who had first uttered the words _King Loki_ on the TV screen back in his old cell – as she talks about how Earth’s new leader has been forced to cut his meeting with the European Parliament short to deal with some sort of minor rebellious uprising.

 

He turns the television off, instead deciding to watch a movie. He’s desperate for a drink to go with the mindless explosions and car chases, but for whatever reason, all the alcohol is gone, courtesy of Loki. Not that he bothered to get confirmation on that last part from Jarvis; it was obvious anyway.

 

Then again, it seems as if the time he spent in that cell has dulled his cravings for alcohol, rather than the opposite. Of course, he would still happily have gulped down anything alcoholic set down in front of him, but the desire isn’t as strong as it used to be. Perhaps it’s not important anymore. Perhaps his brain is too occupied with other things.

 

Like revenge. But he needs access to his workshop for that, so he has to be patient and bide his time, trying not to rock the boat too much until then lest Loki decides he won’t trust Tony down there after all.

 

So instead, he makes himself a sandwich (the refrigerator is at least reasonably well-filled) and then watches the rest of the movie, dozing off in the couch towards the end.

 

He’s rattled out of his semi-sleeping state by Jarvis’ voice.

 

“King Loki requests your immediate presence on the top floor, sir.”

 

Groaning, rubbing the vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, Tony rolls to his side, trying to shake some life into his still sleeping arm.

 

“Why?” he asks with a yawn, not feeling up to standing face to face with Loki again in the slightest, and not only because his brain is still sleep-muddled.

 

“I have not been informed of the reason for the request, but I would recommend that you comply, or King Loki would be most displeased.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes at that. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to upset the king, would we?” he grumbles, but makes his way to the elevator nevertheless. There’s hardly any point in refusing. “I presume I have been given _authorization_ to use the elevator?”

 

“You have,” Jarvis replies evenly, “but only to the top floor.”

 

He steps inside the elevator, not bothering to press the button indicating the top floor; Jarvis will take care of it anyway. As the little light on the side panel moves upward, travelling up the row of numbered buttons, he briefly wonders what Loki wants at this time of day. Or night, as it is, and why the hell it can’t wait until tomorrow. He also wonders what was up with that rebellion that got reported on in the news, even if he doesn’t doubt for a second that it’s been firmly squashed down. He’s not sure whether to feel sorry for the poor bastards who thought they had a chance, or glad that there are still people out there who are refusing to acquiesce to the new world order.

 

There’s a ping, and Jarvis voice fills the small space. “The top floor, Mr Stark,” comes the superfluous information, as if Tony doesn’t know the way around his own tower.

 

He steps out and looks around, expecting to see Loki, but there is no sign of the god.

 

“The first room to the right down the corridor, if you please,” Jarvis offers.

 

Of course. The fanciest guest room in the whole tower, and probably the biggest too, with one of the best views over the city. No wonder the god claimed that one as his personal lair.

 

The door is open, and Tony steps in without any preamble. It’s his fucking tower after all.

 

Loki is standing with his back turned, apparently busy staring out one of the windows, though there’s not really much to look at out there, considering the darkness and the city’s current rather levelled skyline. The former landscape of night lights is now reduced to a few scattered bright pinpricks here and there.

 

He throws a couple of quick glances around the room, taking in the changes. Again, nothing major, nothing more than what had been done to his living room, but he doesn’t like it. It feels alien and wrong. _So wrong_.

 

Loki still doesn’t turn, and Tony is suddenly overcome by a sharp sense of discomfort. Even if it’s technically his tower, he’s still very much on foreign turf here. From where he’s standing, he can see that Loki’s shoulders are hunched up and tense, and his posture unusually stiff. _Perhaps that rebellion reported on the news got to him, after all._ Tony can only hope.

 

“Alright, Loki, I’m here. What do you want?” he asks, hoping to break the strange mood. Besides, he’s tired, and would much rather be in bed than standing around here, waiting for whatever Loki is about to tell him. Perhaps he finally wants for Tony to start working on that arc reactor he was going on about before, but fuck if he’s going to do it at this hour.

 

At that, Loki slowly turns, leather creaking in the silence, and Tony startles at the sight greeting him.

 

The god’s face is sporting several dark bruises as well as a couple of scratches on his cheek, like somebody has been trying to gauge his eye out, and a deep gash on his forehead. His shirt – or whatever part of his getup counts as one – is torn in several places, a good chunk missing on the side, revealing lacerated skin. The pants aren’t in any better condition; it looks like a part above the thigh has been burnt away, blood staining the ragged edges.

 

Tony blinks in surprise, having not expected any of that. But it makes a wave of glee well up inside of him, seeing the god bruised and battered like that, even if none of the wounds are serious or will take long for him to heal with his magic. _Speaking of which, why hasn’t he fixed himself up yet?_

 

But this is no doubt the end result of that little rebellion that Loki went off to crush. Even if it wasn’t worth the lives wasted in the futile attempt, at least Loki got injured by a bunch of _humans_ , and that probably hurts him more than the actual wounds. From the way the god favours his right leg and holds himself stiffly, he’s not in a great shape and there’s surely more to his injuries than meets the eye.

 

He’s about to make some flippant comment about how Loki has obviously been keeping himself busy, but the god speaks first.

 

“ _Mortals_ ,” he utters with disdain, the word spat rather than spoken. “Does your kind not have _any_ concept of honour?”

 

And Tony knows he should shut up, he really does, but since when was he ever one to do what’s best for him?

 

“Honour, Loki?” He laughs, a sharp bark. “You come here with an alien army and raze a good part of our planet to the ground, and you of all people speak of _honour_?”

 

Loki’s eyes narrow. “Watch your tongue, Stark, or I might just decide to have it silenced.” He takes a step closer, limping slightly, but when he speaks again, it sounds like he’s talking to himself, as if Tony isn’t even there. “I have conquered this world in fair battle. Your leaders have surrendered and sworn me fealty. That means that each and every one of you Midgardians is honour-bound to show me the loyalty and obedience entitled to a king.” Loki’s voice is taking on a harder note for every word that leaves his tight and bloodless lips, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous, like the amount of crazy is growing by the second.

 

“ _How dare these vile traitors attack me, when Midgard has acknowledged me as their ruler?”_ he suddenly all but roars, fury etched into every line of his face. “It is treason! Betrayal!”

 

_Shut up, Tony_ , he has the time to think before his mouth moves.

 

“You know, if you start a wholly unprovoked war and conquer someone’s world by force, you can hardly expect them to just happily submit to your rule without protest.”

 

_Great going, Tony, it was nice knowing you._

 

But Loki doesn’t blow up like Tony expects him to, even if there is still burning anger in his voice and his face at Tony’s words.

 

“Then they should have fought and died while the battle still lasted. Now that Midgard’s leaders have laid down their weapons and accepted me as King, all their subjects are obligated to show me allegiance in turn,” he says, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“You know, that might be how it works on Asgard. But this is planet Earth. We’re different. You can’t expect loyalty if you try to take it forcefully.” He isn’t sure why he’s even trying; Loki’s ideas of how the world works – or should work – is obviously light-years away from Tony’s.

 

“I shall have it regardless,” Loki responds darkly, a bit calmer now, his face angular and sharp in the dusky light. “I shall have what is owed me.”

 

_So much crazy._

 

“So what happened out there?” he asks, deciding to change the subject, trying to see if he can pry some useful information out of the god other than what will be on the news tomorrow. “Why haven’t you healed your injuries with that fancy hocus-pocus of yours?” _Aren’t you supposed to be a god_ , he’s tempted to ask, but thinks better of it. He’s after answers, not provoking Loki any further.

 

“Like I said, I crushed a rebellion. I fought a battle I shouldn’t even have had to fight in the first place.”

 

“What about your Chitauri?” Tony prods. “Any reason why you didn’t just send them in to do the job?”

 

To his surprise, Loki actually answers that instead of telling him that it’s no business of Tony’s, what his king is doing.

 

“I see that you have not been following the news lately. But in accordance to the agreement made with Midgard’s leaders, I have withdrawn most of my forces. They are still at my disposal and can be assembled at any time, should the need arise, but this particular incident called for a quicker solution. Hence, I took care of it myself.” He scoffs, drawing himself up. “A King does not leave every battle for his army to fight in his stead.”

 

“Why haven’t you healed up yet, then?” Loki avoided that question the first time, so Tony decides to make another attempt. 

 

Loki is silent for a while before he responds, haughty as ever. “Even my magic resources aren’t endless, Stark, which is why I have to use them somewhat selectively at times. Make no mistake, though, they are very far from depleted, but given how treachery is clearly inherent in the Midgardian nature, I will not waste them on healing minor wounds before my reserves have been fully restored, in case I should have to fend off similar attempts soon again.”

 

“My, my, don’t tell me you’re actually admitting to _weakness_ here, Loki?”

 

The slap that follows isn’t that hard, not like last time, but Tony takes a step back nonetheless, a hand going up to his stinging cheek.

 

_Fucking asshole._

 

“No,” Loki replies, his voice even. “I am saying that if I had called on my Chitauri army to take care of the rebels instead of handling things myself, the outcome for that particular city would have been far less pleasant for its inhabitants.”

 

Tony says nothing, only glares daggers at the god, who ignores it.

 

“Now then,” Loki continues with a wave of his hand. “Let’s return to the reason I called you here.” He nails Tony with a hard stare, obviously expecting immediate obedience to whatever order is to follow.

 

“Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed,” the god says, tossing his head to indicate the large four-poster behind them.

 

And Tony can feel the blood drain from his face as the words slowly, impossibly sink in.

 

_No. No way in_ hell _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Like mentioned in the notes to the first chapter, this is where any applicable warnings go in order to avoid spoilers for those who don’t want them. So, if you’re someone who gets triggered by non-conish themes, you might want to tread carefully around this and the following chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

_This isn’t happening. It’s not. It can’t be. It’s impossible._

 

His brain seems like it has short-circuited itself, as if Loki’s words flipped some switch inside his head that just made everything automatically shut off. Even his body is refusing to move, frozen into place in shock and horror by Loki’s request.

 

_He can’t be serious. There’s no way._

And Tony never saw this coming in a million years. Sure, he had expected all kinds of shit from Loki, but not this. Never _this_. The possibility hadn’t even entered his mind.

 

And it fails to make any sense. Because – _why?_ Is it Loki’s way of humiliating him, to punish him for being a big-mouthed smart-ass? To show who’s in charge, and provide a cruel demonstration of the total power the god holds over his mortal prisoner? To put him into his place? To take out the frustration brought by that rebellion on whoever happens to be nearest?

 

He can’t answer any of that, but there’s one thing he knows for certain – there’s no way he’s getting into that bed. Loki will have to fucking _kill_ him first.

 

Loki’s face is flickering in and out of focus, a hazy blur before his eyes, but still Tony doesn’t fail to notice how it’s slowly darkening in fury at his refusal to comply.

 

“Didn’t you hear me?” the god hisses, anger lacing the words. “ _I said_ , take off your clothes and lie down on the bed. Or so help me, you’re going to regret disobeying your _king_.”

 

And Tony bolts. He knows he’s not even going to get off this floor, since Jarvis is controlling the elevator, but fuck it. He makes a run for the door anyway, hoping Jarvis isn’t going to slam it shut.

 

The AI doesn’t need to. Tony doesn’t even make it half-way before there’s suddenly an arm around his waist – how the heck did Loki move that quickly? – halting him with a fierce jolt. He struggles, tries to bite, kick, punch, anything, panic roaring like a tornado, sweeping all sense and reason out of his head. There’s only one thought left in his mind – he needs to get away, get out of here. Nothing else matters.

 

His arms are wrenched behind his back and held in a vicious, unyielding grip. The pressure is making his shoulders burn in pain, but he couldn’t care less as he continues his futile attempts to fight the god off. He pulls and strains, trying desperately to loosen the grip, but to no avail. Instead, a hand snakes up to grab hold of a fistful of his hair, ruthlessly yanking his head up and back until the top of it is touching Loki’s shoulder, the god’s mouth millimetres away from his ear, his breath hot on Tony’s cheek.

 

“You will be punished for that, Stark,” Loki growls into his ear, the fingers entwined in Tony’s hair making another painful yank, pulling him further backwards until he’s starting to seriously believe that he’s about to be snapped in half.

 

_Punished_. As if whatever tortures that the god is going to concoct will be anything compared to what he already has in mind. Like Tony even cares about punishment at this point.

 

“Let me go!” he shouts, though the words are hard to press out from the strained throat that has been bent into a painful backwards angle. “Don’t you fucking _dare_!”

 

And Loki actually lets go. Although ‘shoves to the floor’ is probably a more apt description. Tony stumbles and lands awkwardly, unprepared for the ground coming up to meet him.

 

He scrambles, trying to get his bearings. Loki is hovering above him like a vengeful angel of death, effectively cornering him and blocking his escape route. He’s saying something that sounds like ‘do as I ordered, or you’re going to sincerely regret it’, but Tony barely even registers it. All he knows is that he has to get past that looming figure, one way or the other.

 

So he lunges, throwing himself at the god, hoping to take him enough by surprise to make him topple over. He’s not even thinking, not seeing anything beyond that objective in his panic, failing to even consider the next step. He just needs to get _away_.

 

Loki doesn’t even budge. It’s like hitting a wall of steel.

 

A second later, Tony is lying flat on his stomach on the floor, effortlessly held down by a fuming god, arms once more wrenched up behind his back, one hand squeezing his neck to the point where he’s seeing stars. But it’s not enough to stop his struggles. So he bucks and squirms, not caring that he’s almost tearing his own arms out of their sockets in the process. There are words – screams – leaving his mouth, though muffled from his face being harshly pressed into the floor.

 

But it’s all to no avail, and eventually, he stills, exhausted, the pounding in his ears slowly subsiding as the horrible reality of his own powerlessness is setting in.

 

“What is the _matter_ with you?” Loki snarls somewhere above him, his hands not relenting for an instant, even if Tony has stopped struggling.

 

The god even has the gall to ask. As if it’s not blatantly obvious. As if he expects him to simply acquiesce to his sick demands. Maybe he’s even conceited enough to believe that Tony should be flattered at receiving such attention from the king himself. If so, the bastard has another thing coming.

 

“You think I’m just going to lie back and let you fuck me, Loki?” he yells, anger and fear in equal amounts. “Can’t the great king find himself someone who’s actually willing? And if not, how about buying yourself a hooker if you’re that fucking desperate, huh? Why do you have to use _me_ for this shit?”

 

There is silence following that. For a much longer time then there should reasonably be. He’s starting to wonder if Loki is busy planning out the painful things he will be doing to Tony for having the gall to speak to him like that, but to his surprise, there is something else.

 

Laughter. It’s soft at first, so soft that it takes a while for Tony to recognize it as such. The hands holding him in place loosen their grip a little, though still not fully letting go. The laughter keeps rising in volume, until it reaches an almost hysterical crescendo.

 

“Is that it? You believe I desire to engage in sexual relations with you?” Loki almost howls, twisted mirth having replaced the previous anger. Tony can feel the slight tremors in the body above him, as Loki gives voice to his amusement. It is not a pleasant sound, not one that would invite to joint laughter even under normal circumstances, and it echoes eerily between the walls of the room.

 

After a while of this, Loki eventually lets go off Tony with a disdainful scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he sneers. “I harbour no such wishes, I assure you.”

 

Confused, Tony slowly pushes himself up from his prone position, wincing from the stabs of pain shooting up his arms and shoulders as he puts pressure on them. Loki’s words are making no sense, and he turns to look at the god in incomprehension.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, suspecting a trick from the crazy god, the sudden change of mind perhaps some twisted tactic to lull Tony into a sense of false security.

 

“I mean what I just said. I have neither the wish nor the intention to engage in anything even remotely sexual with you, Stark.” He scowls. “And if I had any such desires for the night, I could do far better than you.”

 

Tony couldn’t care less about the unsubtle insult. “Then why the hell did you just tell me to strip and get into your bed?” he half-growls, feeling anger welling up inside of him at the way the god is toying with him. “Is making rape threats some kind of funny joke back where you come from, or what?”

 

Loki scoffs again. “Either you are a very conceited man, believing everyone would jump on the opportunity to get into bed with you, or you are merely very ignorant. Frankly, I’m not sure which alternative is the most distasteful.” The look he gives Tony is one of scorn and disdain, but it seems like there is nothing left of his previous rage other than a lingering note of irritability, now.

 

Tony clambers to his feet, not wanting to look up to Loki any more than he already has to. He is still a bit unsteady and feels bruised and battered all over. Not nearly as bad as Loki is looking, but far from top shape.

 

“You know, I don’t know what the customs are in Asgard, but here on Earth, when you tell someone to take off their clothes and get into bed, that normally only means one thing,” he says, having to make an effort not to punch the guy in the face for the way he’s been playing havoc with Tony’s emotions and not even seeming to be remorseful in the slightest.

 

Loki crosses his arms, revealing the tattered underside of his right sleeve. “I see,” he says calmly. “So you’re both conceited _and_ ignorant, then.”

 

Normally, he would have made some snappy comeback to that, but he has no desire whatsoever trading banter with Loki right now, or even be anywhere near him. He still doesn’t trust the god, and he has yet to receive a reasonable explanation. “Then how about you just tell me what it is that you actually want instead of keeping me guessing here, Loki? No, I have no clue what you’re going on about, so why don’t you quit the charade and give me a proper answer?”

 

God, he’s so tired, and his nerves are nothing but frayed ribbons; his body still taut as a bowstring. And he’s never been less up for Loki’s mind games than he is right now.

 

“So despite having designed and built this creation yourself,” Loki says, pointing towards Tony’s chest, “you do not know its full potential?” His lips twitch in a sneer. “How typical of you mortals, never fully aware of anything you’re doing, are you, never seeing further than the most obvious.”

 

“What do you mean?” It’s clear that he’s missing an important part of the puzzle here, and he’s in no mood for guesswork.

 

Loki takes a step closer, a finger going up to tap at Tony’s chest. “What I _mean_ , Stark, is that your arc reactor has powers not unlike those of magic. It can amplify certain… frequencies, if you will. Being in its close proximity means that I will be able to heal my wounds much more quickly without sapping my own magic reserves,” he explains, and then makes a derisive face. “And the power emanating from the arc reactor permeates through your entire body as well, meaning that it will also have a similar effect. To put it simply, by being in close proximity to the arc reactor and your body, I will heal considerably faster than I would on my own.”

 

Tony blinks.

 

Loki cocks his head to the side as he looks down at his nose at Tony. “Yes, it is a rather distasteful arrangement, but I intend to take full advantage of its merits regardless.”

 

“So I’m going to be your quick-fix band-aid, huh?” Tony finally manages after a brief silence, not sure how he’s supposed to feel. There is definitely a heady sense of relief inside of him, making him vaguely dizzy, but there is a strong sense of discomfort as well. And he’s not sure which part of this arrangement is making him feel worse – engaging in any sort of intimate body contact with a crazy mass murderer, or being forced to actively aid him.

 

Loki shrugs. “Just another reason why you better be quick about building that new arc reactor, once you get to it. I assure you that I would much rather make use of the reactor on its own than of you.” He draws himself up, face turning harder. “Now, I believe I gave you an order that you have yet to follow.” He points towards the bed. “Get to it.”

 

Tony meets Loki’s gaze with his own, as frosty as he can make it. But he’s fully aware that Loki can just as easily knock him unconscious, tie him up and have his touchy-feely way with him regardless, so he might as well make the night as comfortable as he can, despite how the concept of sharing a bed with Loki is making his skin crawl.

 

And at least, it’s nothing worse than that.

 

Clenching his teeth together, he pulls his shirt over his head, then takes off his shoes and socks, and finally his jeans. He keeps his underwear on, because there’s just no fucking way in _hell_ , and then, hesitating only for a few seconds, he crawls into the bed, his neck prickling. He sure _hopes_ that Loki isn’t just playing him, making all this elaborate crap up so he can get Tony into bed and fuck him.

 

To his relief, Loki doesn’t tell him to remove his underwear; he doesn’t think he could have stomached lying fully naked next to the god.

 

“That’s better,” Loki says impassively. “So much easier for both of us when you simply _obey_ , Stark.”

 

He wants to say something scathing in reply, but neither his brain nor his mouth is cooperating, so instead he just gives Loki another dark look and then awkwardly watches as the god undresses, partly by hand, and partly by magic.

 

There are more wounds beneath the clothing, bruises and swellings and lacerations, each injury making Tony feel a small twinge of satisfaction. It’s comforting to know that the god isn’t invulnerable, even if the damage on his body hasn’t been nearly enough to incapacitate him.

 

He’s grateful that Loki also keeps his underwear on as he lies down on the bed next to Tony, all lean body and long limbs, red blotches and lines marring his pale skin.

 

“Back towards me,” he orders impassively, and Tony complies. He’s only glad not to have to face the god at all.

 

He can hear the soft rustle of sheets as Loki scuffles over; Tony suppresses a shiver of unease, not wanting the god to even put a finger on him. But he has barely finished the thought before an arm reaches out and snakes around his waist and chest, pulling him tight.

 

To add insult to injury, Loki has to fucking spoon him. And of course, Tony gets to be the _little_ spoon.

 

Having the god’s body pressed up close is nothing short of disturbing, and so is the arm around him, holding him in an iron grip. Loki’s chest and stomach are lying flat against the skin of his back, and the god’s hand is resting against the arch reactor. Even his legs are pressing into Tony’s, forcing them to bend, alien knees pushed into the hollows between his thighs and calves. It’s a mockery of an embrace, and no words can truly express how creepy and disturbing it is. Like sharing a bed with Hitler. He’s definitely going to have a long and hot shower first thing tomorrow morning to wash off every lingering trace of the god.

 

He thinks he can feel the shape of Loki’s dick against his ass, and as disgusting as that is, at least it’s every bit as limp as his own, which is at least in some way reassuring.

 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he digs his face into the pillow, not wanting to feel the faint smell of leather and sweat and body odour emanating from the body behind him. The fact that he will have to lie here all night and inhale it is not appealing in the least. A strand of black hair is tickling his face, and he fidgets, trying to get it out of the way.

 

“Sleep,” Loki orders, the muscles in his arm tensing slightly, “and try not to move around too much.”

 

They don’t exchange any further words.

 

It takes a long time for Tony to fall asleep that night. The position is not comfortable, but he can’t move much since even while sleeping, Loki is holding him in a vice-like grip. If he’d worm around a bit, he could probably turn onto his other side, but the idea of facing Loki appeals to him even less, so he remains in the same position until his arm falls asleep, and then, much later, he finally does too.


	11. Chapter 11

He wakes up as someone shakes his shoulder ungently, shattering the dream images in his head filled with cramped, colourless rooms and red-and-gold metal and green eyes burning with insanity.

 

Groaning, he turns around and comes face to face with Loki. He only startles slightly at the sight, the recollections from yesterday quickly returning. The injuries the god had sported last evening are gone without a trace, leaving only perfect pale skin, not even as much as a scar as memory. 

 

“Get out of my bed, and return to your own chambers” Loki says. “I am fully healed and no longer have any use for your presence here.”

 

Rubbing the remaining sleep out of his eyes, Tony pushes himself up into a sitting position and then yawns, stretching his arms over his head in feigned nonchalance.

 

“Kicking me out of bed already, Loki? Without even offering me breakfast? You know, not even _I_ ever had the gall to do that to any of my bed partners,” he quips in an attempt to get rid of the discomfort knowing he has just spent the night snuggled up against the guy who royally fucked up the whole planet. _Yeah, he’s going to take a_ very _long shower_.

 

“I grow weary of your insolence, Stark,” the god says, his voice harder, now. “You’d do well to remember you’re speaking to your king.”

 

“Oh, and you’re very welcome, by the way,” Tony says, making to stand up and get his clothes still strewn out on the floor. “Though next time you want my services, you might wanna consider asking nicely and saying ‘please’ instead of order--”

 

A hand in his hair yanks him back to the bed before he’s barely gotten his ass off it.

 

“Ouch!” he yelps, grabbing at the offending hand with both of his own. “What the hell are you--“

 

Loki’s mouth is far too close to his ear for comfort as he leans in over Tony. He can’t see the god’s face hovering somewhere behind him, but from the tone of his voice as he speaks, it’s clear that it’s looking pissed.

 

“Your services are mine to use as I see fit,” the god hisses. “And I am under no obligation to offer you any thanks for making use of what rightfully belongs to me, which so happens to include _you_.”

 

_Well, fuck._ “I don’t belong to anyone, Loki. And certainly not to _you_.”

 

Judging by the way the fingers are tightening in his hair, that wasn’t the right thing to say. Well, not that it wasn’t obvious regardless.

 

“Oh, but you _do_ ,” the voice says in his ear. He still can’t see Loki’s face, and he doesn’t like that one bit. “In case you have forgotten, I have defeated you in battle and claimed you as spoils of war, so by law, you are mine. Keep that in mind, or your life here will be a lot more unpleasant than it would otherwise have to be.”

 

Tony doesn’t make any reply to that, his brain fully focused on how much he hates how vulnerable it makes him feel having his head pulled back like that, his throat all exposed. Seems like the little shit is having a real hair-pulling fetish, the way he’s been going at it lately.

 

“Now, Stark, I am well aware of the improbability that you, for the time being, will be willing to offer me an apology for speaking to me with such disrespect.” The hand in his hair releases its grip, withdrawing. “So instead, you can tell Jarvis when you are ready to apologize.”

 

_Sheesh._

 

He turns around, finally facing the god. “Well, I don’t believe that I will, Loki,” he says, though not liking the smugness in that face at all.

 

Loki gives him the hint of a smile, though it’s more than a wolfish baring of teeth than anything else. “Oh, I do believe you will, eventually.” He gestures towards the clothes still strewn over the floor. “Now, take your garments and get dressed. In your _own_ chambers.”

 

Tony doesn’t need any more encouragement than that. Quickly, he picks his discarded clothes up off the floor, looking around for the sock still missing and finding it snugly nestled against one of the legs of the bed. He sticks his feet into his shoes, and then makes for the elevator.

 

“Good morning, Mr Stark,” Jarvis says, his cheerfulness sharply clashing with Tony’s own dour mood.

 

“Morning, Jarvis,” he mutters, not feeling in the slightest up for any conversation. His scalp is still aching, but it’s not nearly as disturbing as the knowledge that he’s spent the night with Loki, as platonic as it was, getting spooned by him like a bitch.

 

As the elevator doors open on his own floor with the familiar soft _swoosh_ , he makes straight for the shower, barely even stopping to kick off his shoes and dump his clothes into the laundry basket. The fact that they’ve been lying on _Loki’s_ floor all night is enough to merit a thorough wash before he deems it fit to put them on again.

 

The time he spends in the shower probably lasts even longer than after he was taken from his dank and filthy cell in that basement, and he uses up the remainder of the shower lotion left in the bottle on the cabin shelf. He washes his hair too, feeling a little better as the foamy water rinses all the intangible dirt and uncleanliness away.

 

Having dried himself off and sauntered off to his closet to dig out some new clothes, he heads to the kitchen, intending to make himself some breakfast. Not that he’s particularly hungry, but he might as well eat anyway. He can’t help but wonder how many of his fellow countrymen – and other people, too – are currently starving because of the invasion and the destruction left in its wake. And he feels a sting of guilt at that, how he’s living in luxury, while so many others have suddenly been left with nothing.

 

Then again, he supposes at least those people still have their freedom, for whatever it’s worth nowadays, while he’s living as a prisoner in his own home.

 

Pushing the unpleasant thoughts away, he opens the refrigerator, figuring he’ll make himself a sandwich of some sort. And then, he makes a double-take.

 

The refrigerator is empty. There’s not a single food item left, not even the sad, scrunched-up apple that he had been intending to throw into the garbage, but then forgot about.

 

_What the fuck?_

 

Dumb-founded, he stares at the bare shelves, pristine white and gleaming metal, but nothing else. It’s all wiped clean.

 

Frowning, he opens the door to the fridge instead, and is greeted by a similar sight. Everything is gone. Only the ice cubes are still left, a thin layer of frosty white on the top.

 

He slams the door shut and goes to check the nearest cupboard, though he already suspects that it will be as empty as the fridge and the refrigerator. His misgivings are confirmed only a moment later as he finds himself staring at nothing but empty shelves. A cursory and fully unnecessary look into the remaining cupboards tells him that there’s not a single piece of food left to be had, not even those disgusting salmiak crackers that he bought at some point for whatever stupid reason.

 

“King Loki would like me to remind you that whenever you are ready to apologize for your insolence, you can tell me so and I will relay it on to him,” Jarvis suddenly says, not sounding sorry in the least.

 

Tony feels like kicking something. Hard.

 

_So that’s the fucker’s little game, huh? Starve him into submission?_

 

And that’s the thanks he gets for having let Loki leech on him like he’s some kind of battery. Well, not that Tony had any choice in the matter, but still.

 

Resorting to kicking the kitchen table – though not too hard, since he’s not wearing any shoes – he stalks off into the living room instead, sitting down before the TV. He doesn’t even bother answering Jarvis, since it wouldn’t be anything even remotely nice, and, like he keeps telling himself, it’s not Jarvis’ fault.

 

_It’s all_ Loki’s _fucking fault._

 

He’s itching to head down to his workshop and fiddle with his suits or other projects, but he knows that’s not possible. And it’s incredibly frustrating, being forced into idleness like this, not being able to do anything worthwhile, not even using the computer. And Loki hasn’t told him to get started on that arc reactor yet, so he doesn’t even have that to occupy him. So instead, he amuses himself with graphically imagining all possible sorts of results from an arc reactor with some extra features added to it – hidden explosives tacked on beneath the rim, folded sharp metal pikes suddenly unsnapping, poison, acid, all sorts of things. Most of which would be wholly impossible to pull off, but he’ll think of something once he gets started with it.

 

He watches the news. There’s a long segment about the rebuilding of San Diego, a cheerful reporter eagerly rambling on about how well it’s coming along and how everyone is making their part to help. There is some footage of people sawing and painting. A man wearing a red cap and sweating profusely talks for a while about community spirit and the importance of persevering, while a group of teenage boys in the background huddle over a pile of boards, poking and prodding. Not a word is said about the cause of all the destruction in the first place.

 

He wonders how much control over the media that Loki’s exerting. If he’s ordered them not to report anything that reflects badly on their new leader. Or hinted what might happen to those who are stupid enough to besmear him. Or if everyone has enough of a sense of self-preservation to know what’s good for them without having to be told in the first place, if they’re just falling into line in the new world order. 

 

Disgusted, he switches channels, watching some monkeys go at it on the National Geographic Channel.

 

When his thoughts unbidden start to wander to Pepper, he changes channels again, instead settling for some stupid game-show featuring people getting wet and falling on their asses.

 

Then, he watches a couple of movies instead.

 

It’s not until the sky outside has gone dark that he gets up from the couch, tired and hungry and thoroughly annoyed, and lumbers back into the kitchen. The tussle with Loki from yesterday has left his limbs sore and his body stiff, apart from the bruises and scrapes. Nothing serious, but irritating nevertheless.

 

The refrigerator is still empty. He doesn’t bother checking the fridge or the cupboards.

 

So instead, he brushes his teeth and goes to bed, trying to take comfort in the fact that at least there is no evil demi-god nuzzling up next to him this time.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up the next day, his stomach feels like a hollow pit, aching dourly. He ignores it. It’s just hunger.

 

“Good morning, Mr Stark,” Jarvis says as Tony walks out of the bedroom. “If you have changed your mind yet, please let me know.”

 

He’s very close to tell Jarvis to go to hell, but he doesn’t. The AI can’t help it, after all.

 

He spends the day watching some more movies, then wondering how edible toothpaste really is. Finally, he contemplates the many ways in which he would like to kill Loki, and how he could make them as painful as possible.

 

Much later, when his brain seems to have exhausted all possibilities and variations thereof, he falls asleep on the couch, not bothering undressing and going to bed.

 

* * *

 

He thinks about Afghanistan. Back then, his captors had fed him gruel and stale bread and food out of tin cans. Nothing had tasted even remotely good, but at least he hadn’t been forced to go hungry. They needed him functional and able to use his full mental faculties, after all, not half-delirious from hunger.

 

As his stomach cramps again, he rolls over onto his side, hoping to ease the painful contractions a little. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. This is one of those later times.

 

Jarvis has gotten more insistent, no longer just asking him in the mornings whether he’s changed his mind. Loki, however, hasn’t shown his face around him since he kicked Tony out of bed. Small graces and all.

 

He remembers reading in the newspaper years ago about a man who got trapped in a cave-in and survived by eating his own shirt. He wonders if that story was true or not. 

 

Eventually, he gives up. It’s not that he’s letting Loki win; he’s merely picking his battles. Being strategic. He won’t accomplish anything by letting himself starve to death.

 

_He’d kill for a cheeseburger._

 

“Jarvis?” he says, swallowing down the taste of defeat. Because it’s not defeat, it’s being strategic.

 

“Yes, Mr Stark?”

 

“Tell Loki that… that I…”

 

“Tell him what, sir?”

 

He grits his teeth. “Tell him I’ll fucking apologize, alright?”

 

“Very well. I am glad you have come to the only sensible decision.” A short pause. “I will inform King Loki of your change of mind when he returns tomorrow.”

 

_Tomorrow?_

_Fuck fucking goddamn King Loki_ , is all Tony can think as he wraps his arms around the stomach that’s suddenly cramping wildly.


	12. Chapter 12

Tony tries keeping his gaze focused on the wall next to Loki’s head, just so he won’t have to see the self-satisfied look on the god’s face. The pain in his stomach is making it hard to stand upright, but he forces himself to keep his back straight. No way he’s going to hunch over before Loki; what he’s about to do is bad enough as it already is.

 

“Now, I believe there was something you wanted?” Loki says, every bit his haughty self and then some.

 

“Yeah,” Tony says to the wallpaper an inch to the right of Loki’s head, hating every second of this.

 

“And what might that possibly be?” Loki says, raising one eyebrow in an elegant arch.

 

The god sure isn’t making this any easier.

 

_Smash your head in. Take a screw-driver to it. Throw_ you _out of a window for a change._

 

His jaws are trying to move, but they are locked into place, not wanting to obey.

 

After a while of this, Loki sighs. “I see that I am wasting my time here.” He follows up with a shake of his head and then smacks his lips in displeasure. “Well, I have many far more pressing concerns to deal with that do not involve watching you standing here like a gaping fish, so if you have nothing to say, then I will take my leave.” With that, he makes as if to walk out of the room, and Tony has no idea if he’s being serious or just faking it, but undignified desperation wins out. 

 

“Wait,” he blurts out, his arm half raised as if to grab hold of the god and physically prevent him from leaving.

 

Loki stops, slowly turning around to look at him, and Tony lets his arm fall, feeling like an idiot.

 

“Last chance, Stark,” the god says with a sharp nod. “Otherwise you will have to wait until I’m back this evening.”

 

_No._

 

He draws a deep breath.

 

“I’m sorry,” he grinds out, forcing the words out as quickly as he can, spurred by a mixture of fear that Loki might indeed make good on his threat to leave and a desire to not let the humiliating words linger in his mouth any longer than they absolutely have to.

 

The god looks like he’s drinking in the apology, savouring it like a swig of expensive wine before he finally gives any verbal acknowledgement.

 

“Sorry for what?”

 

_You little shit._

 

But he’s come this far, he’s already given Loki what he wants, so he might as well go the rest of the way too, or the demeaning apology will have been for naught.

 

“For being … disrespectful,” he manages, hoping that answer is going to satisfy Loki’s swollen, blown-up head.

 

The god looks like he’s contemplating the reply for a few moments, but Tony doesn’t miss the little triumphant glint in his eyes. _Victory,_ it says.

 

“I am glad you have seen the error of your ways, Stark,” Loki drawls, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Can I assume that you will be keeping a better reign on your tongue from now on and speak to me with respect?”

 

_Alright, Tony, it’s just one small word. One word, and it will hopefully all be over and done with._

 

“Yeah,” he mutters, though it’s probably the most petulant-sounding ‘yeah’ he’s uttered since he was about five years old.

 

And there are very few things he wouldn’t give in that very moment for something that could wipe that smug look right off the god’s face.

 

“Very well, then. Your apology is accepted,” Loki says graciously, as if he’s just bestowed a grand, personal favour upon a fawning subject. “However, I will expect you to conform to your promise, or I will have no choice but to make sure you receive another reminder.”

 

Tony bites down on his tongue to prevent himself from saying something that will ruin everything and make his debasing himself like this before the god amount to nothing. So he keeps quiet and simply waits for Loki to say something else, a taunt, a threat, a jeer, something to goad him or further humiliate him.

 

However, Loki seems like he has grown tired of the game, having gotten what he came for. Raising his chin minutely, he half-closes his eyes and makes a little circular, flowery gesture with his right hand. Then, he looks straight at Tony as if nothing has happened. “We will talk more later,” is all he says before turning to leave.

 

Tony tries to control himself, he really does, but the door hasn’t even closed behind Loki before he rushes into the kitchen and flings the door to the refrigerator open.

 

The food is all back. Every single item is just where he remembers it, every piece of food that his headstrong brain has spent the last few days imagining in loving detail instead of focusing on whatever movie has been flashing by on the screen. Even the sad-looking apple is there too, as wrinkled and scrunched-up as before.

 

He pukes everything up a few minutes later, grabbing the edges of the toilet seat with shaking, white-knuckled hands as he retches and coughs. Of course he knew exactly what was going to happen as he wolfed the food down, barely even pausing to chew, but he couldn’t stop himself any more than he could have stopped a tornado or a tsunami.

 

Eventually, the stomach cramps let up and he weakly pushes himself up from his undignified position, sitting back on his ass to take a deep breath, his head spinning.

 

_Some soup to start with_ , he decides. _Definitely some soup._

 

* * *

 

Next time Loki comes to see him, Tony is feeling like his old self again, having fully recovered from his little starvation spell. At least the god chooses not to comment on it, and Tony is only too happy to pretend as if the whole incident never happened at all.

 

“I want you to start working on the new arc reactor,” Loki tells him without preamble, cutting right to the chase.

 

There is no ‘please’ or ‘would you be so kind’. Not that Tony expected there to be, but he’s smart enough not to comment on it.

 

“So you’re going to let me into my workshop, then?” he asks instead, feeling a sting of giddiness inside of him at the prospect. He makes an effort not let any of his excitement show, though, instead keeping a mask of impassiveness firmly locked onto his face.

 

“Of course. How else would you be able to build anything?” Loki says casually. He’s wearing the same clothes as he always is; Tony wonders if he ever changes them. Or perhaps he has a whole set of identical outfits. Or maybe it’s all just an illusion, some sort of glamour.

 

Not that it matters.

 

For a while, Tony hesitates. Perhaps this is the perfect moment to bring it up, or maybe it’s the worst, but he can’t hold it off any longer. Because he just _has_ to find out. Jarvis didn’t know – or chose not to tell him (he’s not sure how to interpret the AI’s repeated ‘I am unable to offer you any information on that’) – and given how cut off Tony is, Loki is his only two-way communication with the world outside.

 

He draws a deep breath, hoping he can play this right. After his and Loki’s recent _disagreement_ , he’s not sure how well the god is going to take this, but he has to try, even if it only earns him another dry spell without food.

 

“Alright, Loki,” he agrees. “I’ll build you the arc reactor like you want.” _And then some_. “But I figured that in return, you might be willing to give me some kind of… reward?”

 

Already, he can see the clouds drawing in over Loki’s face and his eyebrows pulling themselves together at those words. So he quickly continues before Loki has a chance to say something along the lines of ‘how dare you make any demands of your king, you should be happy for the privilege to serve, yada yada’.

 

He holds his hands up, palms out, in a disarming gesture. “Nothing big. Just a phone call, that’s all I’m asking for.” His mouth is suddenly very dry, and not because of Loki’s potential anger and its consequences, but the very real possibility that Loki might very well say ‘no’.

 

“Actually, it’s a Midgardian thing. Prisoners are entitled to make one phone call, and I haven’t actually gotten mine yet.” His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Just one phone call. That’s all.”

 

_Come on, you bastard. Just say ‘yes’. One fucking single monosyllabic word. You can do it. It’s not that hard._

 

Loki is staring at him, not revealing whatever he’s thinking. It takes a while before he replies. 

 

“And who is it that you wish to call?”

 

“An… employee of mine. Just to make sure she’s alright, you know? She was living in New York, and it would be nice to know… if she made it,” he says. _And if Pepper is dead, it’s all on you. I’m going to make you suffer like hell for it, one way or the other._

 

“Your _employee_ , is it?” Loki drawls slowly, the corner of his mouth making a small twitch.

 

Of course, Loki might be many things, but he isn’t an idiot. Obviously he can tell that there’s more to it than that, but fuck if Tony is going to admit to it.

 

“Yeah. Stark Industries, my company. She used to work for it,” he says, going for casual, but only managing strained.

 

Loki studies his nails for a few heartbeats. Then, he makes a quick motion with his hand, and suddenly there’s a cell phone in it.

 

Not any cell phone, but _his_ cell phone. Even from here, he recognises the Iron Man sticker that he put on as a drunken joke a couple of months ago, the glue along one of the edges having worn off to leave a loose flap he’d taken to automatically toying with when phoning people. He only wonders for a second how Loki got hold of it, quickly remembering how those brainwashed SHIELD goons had relieved him of everything.

 

“One phone call, you say?” the god asks, a finger trailing over the device in his hand, like he’s taunting Tony with it, holding a juicy bone out to a slobbering dog.

 

For a long moment, he hesitates. If he makes that call, he’ll out Pepper to Loki, perhaps putting her in danger, making her a target. Turning her into a means for the god so he can put pressure on Tony, to force him to do his bidding by threatening to hurt her. Or actually hurt her for real. Loki will see what number he’s called and will be able to track her down.

 

_Does Loki even know how to use a cell phone?_ Well, not that it makes any difference. The god has Jarvis at his disposal, after all. The AI can easily do it.

 

He bites his lip. Maybe he should tell Loki that he has changed his mind and doesn’t want that phone call after all.

 

Then again, Jarvis knows all about him and Pepper. He knows her number, her address – that probably doesn’t even exist anymore – her shoe size and her favourite perfume. Loki only needs to ask, and he’ll get all the information he could ever ask for. One phone call isn’t going to change anything. If Loki’s intention was to use Pepper as leverage, he could and surely would have done so already.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “One phone call.”

 

Loki nods. “Very well. Make it, then.” He holds out the phone to Tony. “However, you will make no mentions of your current whereabouts or situation. And you will turn on the loudspeaker. Furthermore, you will finish the call when I indicate for you to do so.”

 

_So Loki does know how a cell phone works, if he knows what a loudspeaker is._

 

“Fine.” He snatches the phone out of Loki’s hand before the god has a chance to change his mind. Quickly, he places it on the counter next to him, turns the loudspeaker on as instructed and hits the quick-call button.

 

Then he waits.

 

To his overwhelming relief, the call is being patched through. His heart is pounding in his ears as he counts the signals, stacking up to far too many for comfort. _Pepper is always quick to answer her phone, why isn’t she picking up?_ But at least there are signals, so that’s a good sign, right? It means that she’s alive, doesn’t it?

 

_Pick it up, Pepper. Please._

 

Then, amazingly, there’s a click on the other end, and a familiar voice speaking.

 

“Tony? Oh my _god_ , is that _you_ , Tony?”

 

He could almost cry in relief.

 

“Yeah, it’s me, Pepper, I--“

 

“I thought you were dead!” It sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, and he wishes she wasn’t over there and he back here and so many other things. “They were saying on the news that you--“

 

“Don’t mind the news, Pep, I’m still alive and kicking. Don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine.” For once, he doesn’t want to talk about himself. “How are _you_ doing? Are you okay?”

 

He thinks he can hear a subdued sob, but her voice is steady enough as she speaks again. “Yes, I’m fine. I got out of New York when… things happened. I’m staying at a friend’s place in Portland now. It’s not too bad here, Portland got away relatively unscathed.” A short pause. “Where are you, Tony?”

 

He can see Loki move out of the corner of his eye, obviously as a reminder for him to not answer that. At least not honestly.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Pepper.” _And believe me, you don’t want to know._ “But like I said, I’m doing fine and I’m still in one piece, so don’t worry about me.”

 

He can see Loki make a hand movement in a way that is impossible to misinterpret. _Cut it off_.

 

“Pepper, I… I can’t talk any longer, but you take care of yourself, you hear me?”

 

To his surprise, she doesn’t protest or ask any further.

 

“I love you, Tony,” she says instead.

 

And he almost wishes that she hadn’t said that. Not when Loki is standing an arm’s length away, hearing every word, having his obvious suspicions confirmed.

 

But the damage is done already. So whatever.

 

“Love you too, Pepper,” he says. “I’ll try calling you ba--”

 

The call is cut short, Loki’s long finger resolutely pressing down on the screen. Tony raises his eyes to meet with green ones. The god doesn’t bat an eyelash.

 

“You got your phone call, Stark. Now, you have work to do.”


	13. Chapter 13

His workshop looks exactly as he remembers it. A half-welded piece of armour intended for his new suit is still lying on the workbench, and the tools from the box that he accidentally knocked over the last time he was in here but never got around to cleaning up are still littering the floor.

 

Loki has changed nothing in here. There are no weird Asgardian ornamentations or altered colour schemes. It’s all like it’s supposed to be. The only part of his tower that has truly felt like _home_ since his return here.

 

Of course, his suits are gone. But he already had expected that, so it doesn’t really count.

 

He remains standing on the spot for a little while, breathing in the familiar smells of motor oil and welded metal. His mood is already lifting, despite how he hasn’t actually done anything productive yet.

 

Not even Loki’s voice behind him does much to ruin his high spirits.

 

“Keep in mind that Jarvis will be monitoring everything you do in here. You are not allowed to work on anything else than the arc reactor for now,” he says, walking around so he can face Tony. The god looks so terribly out of place in his fantasy medieval outfit surrounded by all the high-end tech in here, but Tony can keep from laughing.

 

“Got it,” he acknowledges with a nod.

 

“If you lack anything needed to build the reactor, you may tell Jarvis and he will convey it to me.” Loki picks up a circuit board lying on the workbench with two fingers and lifts it up to study it with laser-like concentration. Then, with a minute tensing of his hand, he snaps the little piece in half, his eyes going up to meet with Tony’s. “I should think I don’t need to tell you the consequences of you trying any form of… sabotage or the like,” he intones, voice calm as if he were talking about taking his Chihuahua for a walk in the park.

 

_Just you wait, buddy._

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tony says. “I’m a smart guy, not suicidal, okay?”

 

Loki makes no reply to that, but the look in his eyes is hard, as if he doesn’t trust Tony one bit. Well, in that case, the god shouldn’t have let him in here in the first place.

 

“Are there any further supplies or materials you need to get started?” Loki eventually asks. “Or is your workshop well-enough equipped?”

 

“I’m good for now, I think.”

 

“Very well. I will remain in the tower for a couple of more hours today, so you have that time to begin your work,” Loki says, his fingers playing with the broken circuit board pieces. “And while I am in no particular hurry to have the reactor finished, I still don’t expect you to be dawdling in here, Stark. Use your time productively.”

 

_Yeah, he definitely plans to do that._

 

“Don’t worry. I’m a hard worker, once I get started.”

 

“I will leave you to it, then.” With that, the god turns to leave and heads for the door.

 

“Uh, Loki?” Tony says. “One question, if you will?”

 

Loki stops, but he only turns around halfway, as if he suspects that whatever Tony is going to ask isn’t going to be worth the bother.

 

He takes a deep breath. “Okay, one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you – why did you pick my tower as your personal residence on Earth? It’s not an official building or anything, or even situated in the capital of the good old US of America. Why haven’t you had, I don’t know, like a palace or something built? Or taken over one already in existence?” He makes a semi-apologetic hand gesture. “Alright, so we don’t have any real palaces here in America, but there are lots of countries that do. I mean, I know my tower is awesome and all, but it doesn’t have the whole gold-and-spires thing going for it. Heck, it doesn’t even have a moot. I figured you already got the crown and the throne and the sceptre, so why not a real palace too, as would befit a king?” He finally stops to catch his breath, watching Loki’s face intently, but the god doesn’t seem like he’s particularly irritated by the barrage of questions, though.

 

“Your tower suited my needs,” Loki replies simply. “It is the most secure building in all of Midgard, which I am sure that you – as Jarvis’ designer – are well aware of, even if it’s not very… aesthetically pleasing. But such concerns are of little importance for the moment.”

 

“Security reasons, huh?” Yeah, that figures, considering that there is surely no one on this planet running a higher risk of an assassination attempt than Loki. Though, how do you even assassinate a god?

 

“So you’re planning to camp out here for your remaining time in office, then?”

 

Loki snorts. “Hardly. I will eventually have a proper palace built in Midgard that will, as you put it, befit a king. But as of now, I have many more pressing issues to deal with than comforts and luxury.”

 

“Yeah, speaking of which, don’t kings normally have servants and other helpful people running around? Someone to shine their shoes and pour them beer and stuff?”

 

“Someone skilled in magic needs no personal attendants,” Loki says haughtily, drawing himself up a little. “However, I have taken many humans into my direct employment to fill other practical and administrative functions that a king needs support with in order to efficiently rule his realm. Still, none of those functions include tending to my garments or serving me drinks.”

 

_Direct employment._ He wonders if those poor souls on Loki’s payroll – if they get paid at all – are all mind-controlled zombies, or otherwise got pressured into it.

 

He has to ask.

 

“You used the sceptre on them, didn’t you?”

 

At that, Loki gives a broad smile, the amusement going all the way up to his eyes. “No, Stark. As hard as you might find it to believe, it has not been difficult to recruit volunteers willing to enter my service.” He leans back against the workbench, looking as arrogant as ever. “Which is as it should be. Serving the king is an honour, and only the best are worthy. Why should people not clamour for the privilege inherent in such a position? There is no mind-control necessary for that.”

 

_Traitors._ But there are always opportunists willing to take advantage of any situation, aren’t there?

 

He crosses his arms, not wanting to think about those of his fellow humans who are – at least according to the crazy son of a bitch lazily lounging in front of him – fawning for the great honour of aiding the enemy after he just attacked their planet and killed countless of people. As if they’ve already forgotten everything, or never cared in the first place.

 

Then again, maybe he isn’t one to talk, given the first-class opportunist he used to be himself not that many years ago, thriving on chaos and destruction.

 

“Then what about those two SHIELD guys you used to keep around? Given their baby-blues, they didn’t look very much like volunteers to me.” He realizes that he hasn’t seen them since they dropped him off here and he hasn’t spared their fate even a thought until now.

 

Loki merely shrugs, as if that’s not important. Which it of course isn’t, to him. “Ah, those two. Yes, I urgently needed a couple of helpers to handle a few things after my victory in New York, so that was the easiest way. But I have since gotten rid of them. I no longer had any need for them.”

 

“You killed them, you mean.” His words are spoken calmly enough, but there is still anger simmering beneath at how callously Loki is speaking about those agents that he clearly murdered in cold blood.

 

Loki even has the gall to look amused. “No. I released them from their trance and let them go, once their services were no longer needed. A king does not needlessly kill his subjects without a good reason.”

 

Tony blinks, not having expected that. Then again, it’s the god of lies and deceit speaking here, so maybe he’s just making shit up. Maybe he killed those guys anyway, despite what he’s claiming. Not that Tony will ever know if they’re happily back home – if they still got one – playing with their kids or rotting in some back alley.

 

“So why haven’t you turned humanity into droves of mind-controlled zombies yet?” he asks instead, silently praying that’s not Loki’s long-term plan. Not that he’s been outside to observe for himself if the eye colour of the general populace has changed lately, but the people he’s seen on TV have all looked like what Tony assumes their normal selves look like. Not even the prime ministers and presidents occasionally flickering by seemed to be under any undue influence.

 

_Does Loki really expect to be able to keep humanity in check without his glow-stick?_

 

Apparently, he’s said something funny again, because Loki gives a little snicker. “You think _that_ is how I intend to rule Midgard?” he snorts, shaking his head. “What is the point of that? What kind of king would have to mind-control his subjects to be assured of their fealty?” He stands up, walking a slow circle around Tony. “No. Midgard will willingly bow beneath my rule and acknowledge me as its rightful king. I will have loyalty and obedience and faithfulness because my subjects will freely offer it, not by means of cheating.”

 

“But by taking it by force?” He’s probably tripping on dangerous territory here, but if Loki is going to bitch-slap him for it again, so be it.

 

Loki’s voice is lower now, as he stops behind Tony to half-speak, half-whisper into his ear. And Tony really wishes the god would stop doing that, because it’s really fucking creepy.

 

“That’s how all kingdoms are taken, Stark. Or made. As for the rest, it will follow eventually.”

 

Maybe he shouldn’t push it, but Loki hasn’t flown off the handle yet, so he might as well. “And how do you expect to win the favour of a people whose world you’ve ripped apart, whose families you’ve killed? People who no longer have anywhere to live or any means of providing for themselves after the Chitauri destroyed their cities? How are you going to fix that, Loki?” he asks, not moving an inch, despite the unease crawling up his skin at having the god standing so close behind him.

 

“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” Loki says, walking around to face Tony again. “You forget, you humans are short-lived, whereas I will live for thousands of years yet. Perhaps those alive today will always harbour resentment in their hearts, despite what silver lies their mouths are speaking, wishing for the old world order to return. However, in a few generations’ time,” – he sweeps out with his hand to indicate nothing in particular – “this will be normal. Your children will know me as their rightful ruler from the day they are born. They will learn to worship their king and teach their own children to do the same. Those who are still longing for the days of old will be seen as nothing but deluded nostalgics. Eventually, all of humanity will accept their natural state and be grateful for their strong and powerful leader. I have time. I have patience. And one day, Midgard’s true loyalty will be mine.”

 

Fuck, Loki is sounding like one of those deluded sect leaders. And it’s ironic, the way he’s claiming to find it distasteful to use the brainwash stick to control people, but has no qualms influencing them in more subtle ways, so that future generations will be indoctrinated from birth to properly fawn over His Royal Alien Greatness.

 

“And until that happens, you’re going to be camping in here?” Yeah, there go his hopes of ever getting his tower back. Not that he was ever counting on it, but still.

 

“I will stay for as long as is necessary,” Loki says with a nonchalant shrug. Then, as if he can read in Tony’s face what he’s thinking – and he probably can – he continues. “However, do not think that you will ever have your tower back. Like I said, you are mine and in my service now, and I intend to keep you, Stark.”

 

  1. Not even that crazy art critic he had brought home some five years ago from a vernissage had been that possessive, even if he had barely managed to get her out of the door the next morning and had to go to court afterwards to get a restraining order.



 

_Well, there’s no arguing with a lunatic_ , he supposes. Unfortunately, it seems like he won’t be getting a courtly restraining order this time around, though.

 

“Will there be anything else, Stark?” Loki says with a hint of impatience. “Or do you have all the information needed to begin your work on the arc reactor?”

 

_He’s got everything alright._

 

“I’ll manage,” he says, feeling a sudden urge to have Loki get out of there so he can finally be alone in his own workshop.

 

“Good. Then there is nothing keeping you from getting started.” Green eyes are boring into him like needles, sharp and pointed. “And, again, keep in mind that Jarvis will be monitoring you at all times.”

 

_Yeah, getting spied on by his own creation._ Lovely.

 

“I’ll remember that.”

 

And then, Loki is gone, having teleported away. Tony draws a heavy sigh of relief. As shitty as the circumstances are, at least he’s here in his workshop, the best position he’s been in since those goddamn Chitauri descended from their hole in the sky. But he doesn’t linger too long on the feeling; he has work to do, after all.

 

Building the reactor will be easy, but adding some sort of discreet _up-grade_ , and doing it unnoticed too, will be a lot harder.

 

But he has time to figure it out.


	14. Chapter 14

Simply working with his hands again after the long period of forced inactivity in which he’s done few things more productive than watching movies or scratching his belly button is wonderful. Feeling the familiar grip of a screwdriver in his palm, or hearing the soft buzz from the Bergner indicator is a joy in itself.

 

And being surrounded by his beloved tools and gadgets, he can almost forget why he’s here in the first place.

 

Almost.

 

Though, not really. Because it’s not truly possible to forget it if Earth’s self-appointed dictator wants you to build an arc reactor for him.

 

He looks at the materials spread out on the workbench; the basics of what would be needed to build the casing. Not the most important part, but necessary before he starts with the actual reactor, as to enclose and keep its powers from dispersing instead of focusing properly. And besides, he’d rather start with the parts that don’t in themselves contain the actual power that Loki is after. The harmless stuff.

 

But he’s done this before in Afghanistan. The most difficult part is that Jarvis is watching him now. True, even back in that cave he’d been under constant surveillance, though the goons watching had mostly been science illiterates which had enabled him to build something completely unasked for right under their noses. Now, it’s his own creation keeping a watch on him, and that is going to make things a whole lot more difficult.

 

But while Jarvis knows science, he’s not a mind reader. Not even of Tony’s mind, as stellar at predicting his creator as Jarvis has always been.

 

He tinkers a little with the metal in front of him, and as he tinkers, he thinks.

 

Of course, he’s already thought this over many times, ever since Loki first mentioned that he wanted that arc reactor. He has some embryos of possible ideas, but most of them will be very difficult, if not impossible, to get past Jarvis’ watchful eyes. Even if Loki wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a real arc reactor and a tampered-with one, he’s got his AI watchdog to alert him if Tony is trying to do something outside of the stated order specifications.

 

But there’s one possible idea he’s going to follow for now, and see where it might lead.

 

Loki has made use of the reactor in his chest, and sucked its power into his body like a leech and let it mingle with his fairyland magic. Given that, there is a possibility that there might be some residual leftovers from Loki’s magic in the arc reactor, some kind of energy signature that is still possible to get a reading on.

 

And if he can do that, maybe he can create something that will work in opposite of that energy signature, some signal that will cancel it out or destroy it. Like a battery with both of its poles connected to each other, causing a swift and powerful recharge that will burn the battery out. Perhaps even make it explode in the process.

 

Maybe it won’t work. Maybe he will be signing his own death sentence by even trying, but whatever. If there is even the slightest of chances that it will kill or even just incapacitate Loki, it’s worth a shot.

 

He rests his fingers over the glowing orb in his chest, not feeling particularly up to this part of his plan. But if there is still some residue of energy lingering from the night he spent with Loki – and how twisted doesn’t that sound in his head – he can’t avoid it.

 

The Spock cage – _yeah, he’s allowed to call it that, he was the one who designed and built it_ – is standing on the workbench with its door open, waiting to be put to use. One foot tall, one and a half wide, the microwave oven-like metal contraption has been one of his more useful inventions yet, allowing him to get all sorts of interesting physical measurements in one reading, resulting in a long data printout of various energy fields, magnetism, radiation, and emissions that would make no sense whatsoever to the overwhelming majority of people out there.

 

Of course, it means that he has to take the reactor out of his chest and place it in the cage, but at least the actual process of getting the readings is a quick one.

 

He only hesitates for a few moments. Then, he carefully clicks the reactor out of its protective canister, holding his breath as he removes it. He always holds his breath during this part.

 

Quickly, he places the reactor into the cage, slams the door shut and hits the green button. There is a faint whir, feeling like it lasts for an eternity and not just the few seconds that he knows it actually takes, before the soft ping that indicates that the readings are all done finally fills his ears.

 

He doesn’t waste a second putting the reactor back into his chest again, exhaling in relief as it slides into place, resuming its function as life-support. Grounding himself for another few moments, he then presses the ‘print’ button and waits impatiently as several sheets of paper are spit out of the printer in the corner, each one filled with dense lines of data.

 

Then, he spends the next few minutes meticulously studying the sheets, looking for aberrations. By now, he knows more or less by heart what the various readings should look like, after all the check-ups he’s done over the years – particularly during the first few months – to make sure that everything regarding the reactor was in order and nothing was acting up, possibly with lethal results.

 

Nothing looks out of the ordinary as he scans down the long list. Not until he gets toward the end of it.

 

_There_.

 

The secondary gamma energy radiation is at least ten times as high as it should normally be. _Ten times._ Even after the days that have passed since he was playing Loki’s teddy bear, those energy readings are still up in the attic.

 

Yeah, he’s definitely stumbled onto something there. Quickly checking the rest of the list to make sure there is nothing else standing out – there isn’t – he puts them aside, trying to keep an impassive face as to not alert Jarvis that he’s doing something suspicious. Of course, the AI is used to him doing this from time to time, so there is no reason why he should question Tony taking the opportunity to do a quick check-up of his arc reactor now that he’s finally allowed back in his workshop.

 

There is a seed of triumph inside of him. Now he has something to work with – the secondary gamma energy radiation. If he could create a powerful enough opposing energy field as to cancel out Loki’s mojo… yeah, he could probably do that. He just needs to get a small initial field going; the power of the arc reactor could then easily fuel it and magnify it countless of times. And the effect would hopefully be like a short-circuiting car battery.

 

There’s only one initial problem, though. He needs some sort of approximation of how strong the secondary gamma fields emanating from Loki are. If not, he might not make the opposing field strong enough. Or, it would be too strong, starting to react before the distance between the god and the arc reactor is still too far to set off the chain reaction he’s hoping for, prematurely alerting the god that something is not right.

 

There is a small gamma radiation reader in one of the drawers beneath the workbench, along with a lot of various devices and stuff–o-meters that he doesn’t use very often. So he opens the drawer, bends over it and pretends to look for something. He spots the reader almost at once, discreetly moving his hand over it and then palming it, hoping Jarvis won’t notice. Sure, if the AI were in full scanning mode as opposed to ordinary camera-only mode he would definitely have seen what Tony did there, but unless Loki has tampered with Jarvis’ default settings – does the god even know what scanning is? Even if he was obviously familiar with cell phones? – he shouldn’t have noticed.

 

Quite openly, he grabs a pair of tweezers instead, pretending that he was going for those all along. Trying to hold the gamma reader causally in his other hand, he sits down at his workbench again, and, letting the metal surface hide his doings – slips the reader into the pocket of his jeans.

 

As long as Jarvis only has the cameras turned on and not the full scanning hoopla, he shouldn’t have been able to tell. At least the AI doesn’t offer any comments, so Tony takes that as a good sign.

 

He continues to fiddle some more with the embryo of what will eventually be a modified arc reactor, feeling immensely pleased with himself. The first day of this, and it seems that he already has both a viable idea to work with, and will be managing to sneak out the reader.

 

Now he only needs some close contact with Loki, and he can get the needed readings too. And it needs to be close-up, since secondary gamma ray fields only extend a few inches or so from the body exuding it.

 

* * *

 

Tony Stark has to admit that he’s bored. The times he’s been allowed into his workshop to work on the arc reactor have been sporadic and short-lasting. Apparently, Loki is away most of the time, only stopping by the tower for shorter visits. Tony supposes he sleeps here, but it doesn’t seem like Loki is in favour of the idea of Tony being in his workshop while the god is busy sleeping, even if he has Jarvis to immediately alert him if his prisoner is doing something he isn’t supposed to.

 

Occasionally, Loki is on the news. Sometimes, it’s some important meeting with important people, and other times, it’s some ridiculous parade or celebration, complete with all the garishness Tony remembers from the coronation ceremony. _Full-tilt diva indeed_.

 

Now is one of those rare times that he’s down here, though, having fiddled with the modest beginnings of the arc reactor for maybe half an hour or so. It’s frustrating that he hasn’t gotten around to do any readings on Loki yet. He’s barely even gotten a whiff of the god in these last few days, apart from one time when Loki had suddenly materialized right behind Tony’s back to ask him how his work was coming along and then tell him to continue as the god stood there watching over his shoulder like a creep, and another occasion when he had cornered Tony in his living room, leading to a short conversation that didn’t seem like it served anything more than allowing Loki an opportunity to gloat.

 

He’s not just bored, though. He’s frustrated, being locked up in his own tower without even getting to leave it or communicate with the world outside – apart from that single, cut-short phone call to Pepper – being told what to do, having only the shell left of his old life.

 

He dearly misses the times when he could just do what he wanted, build whatever he felt like, tinker with his choice of project for the day. Now, he’s sitting in here, surrounded by his precious toys without being allowed to use any of them because he’s supposed to be building the goddamn arc reactor that Loki has ordered.

 

_Fuck that._

 

Throwing the tool in his hand onto his workbench, the clatter loud in the silence, he pushes the chair out with one forceful motion and stands up. He’s Tony Stark, for fuck’s sake.

 

His suits have been taken away, but the second best thing is still left – his cars. To the far right in the long row, there’s his Lexus 190, and he’d been working on installing a Stark-special upgrade to its faulty engine before everything went to hell, but never got around to finishing it. So what if he might never drive that car again, or any of the others; the construction part is at least as much fun as the rest of it. Building and tinkering and creating and inventing. That’s what makes him; he wouldn’t be Tony Stark otherwise.

 

Turning his back to the workbench he heads over to the sleek red creation and slowly, almost lovingly, reaches out a hand to pop the hood open, giving a little smile as he does.

 

_Yeah, I’ll fix you up alright, put you back into a drivable condition, don’t you worry._

 

He picks up the tool he had discarded on the floor after the last time he’d been working on the Lexus. It’s perfect in his hand, almost melting into his grip like it’s been waiting for him and is now giving him its own special sort of welcome.

 

And he sets to work, whistling softly to himself as he re-wires a loose cable.

 

It doesn’t take long, however, before Jarvis’ voice comes on-line.

 

“May I please remind you, Mr Stark, that King Loki’s orders are for you to solely work on the arc reactor while you are in the workshop?”

 

“No, you may not,” he says, ignoring the AI and feeling awesome about it. Fuck, this is Tony Time, and he deserves a break from all this crap of being bossed around and told what to do. He’s fucking tired of it.

 

“You are not allowed to use your time here to work on your personal projects, sir. I recommend that you cease this line of action immediately, or I will be forced to report your failure to comply to King Loki.”

 

“Fuck Loki,” Tony says, removing a bolt. “And you know what – fuck you too, Jarvis.” It feels awesome to finally say it, to revolt, to protest, to piss on Loki’s fucking whiny primadonna entitlement.

 

There is silence for a little while before Jarvis speaks again. “I have conveyed a report to King Loki. I’m sorry, Mr Stark.”

 

“Go to hell,” he says with a flippant wave of his hand, not even looking up from the engine. He’s having far too much fun, for once immersing himself in something that’s actually enjoyable. For a while, he can shut out the world outside and everything that’s wrong about it and his current situation. Like the fact that he might never see Pepper again, that the world as he once knew it has gone to hell, and he’s been turned into the lapdog of a possessive all-powerful crazy god.

 

He couldn’t care less that his hands are all dirty with grease and motor oil, or that his thumb is bleeding and stinging from having been cut on something metal and sharp. All that exists right now is the engine and its collection of cables and pistons and cylinders and spark plugs. For a while, he’s really Tony Stark again, and not someone’s fucking _bitch_.

 

Then, something disrupts his laser-like focus, yanking him out of his own little world of bliss.

 

There is someone standing behind him. Someone who is not happy at all.

 

_“What in the Nine do you think you are doing, Stark?”_ a far too well-known voice rings out a second later.

 

Yeah, someone who is _definitely_ not happy at all.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone who happens to know anything about the field of car mechanics. ;)

Tony doesn’t even bother looking up but merely reattaches the spark plug he’d taken out to see if there were any broken parts in it.

 

“I’m working on my Lexus 190,” he says casually. “It’s one of my newest cars, and it’s already been giving me trouble, can you believe that? No craftsmanship whatsoever these days, is there?”

 

“I do not remember giving you permission to work on other things down here apart from the arc reactor.” Loki’s voice is low with something dangerous in it, but Tony isn’t impressed with dangerous. He’s faced off with it too many times already for that.

 

“Well, that’s probably because you didn’t.” He pokes at one of the pistons, evaluating whether it needs to be screwed on tighter. “But you see, Loki, I’m not some mindless robot. I like doing my own stuff from time to time. And this place down here? Guess what, it’s my personal playground. I like being in here. I like doing stuff in here. So that’s what I’ve been doing. _My_ stuff. Because _I_ want to. Not you.” He gestures with the wrench in his hand, pointing at his own chest. “ _I_.”

 

“Stand up, Stark,” Loki says, ignoring his rant, “and face me.”

 

“Sorry, can’t do,” Tony replies with a shrug, still not looking up. He’s so sick and tired of that bastard trying to control his life, telling him what to do. “I’m kinda busy right now. How about you come back say an hour later?”

 

A hand descends on his shoulder, yanking him up and to his feet. He stumbles, wincing at the fingers digging into the bone beneath, probably leaving marks for several days to come.

 

Loki’s face is like a thunderstorm, dark and teetering on the edge of something that might explode any second. There is a harsh glint in those green eyes, as if there’s a fire smouldering beneath. If looks could burn and all that, Tony would no doubt have been a pile of smoking cinder and ashes right now.

 

“So, you still have not learned, Stark,” Loki says with what is more of a hiss than anything else. “You still persist on showing your king this disrespect and insolence of yours?”

 

“Yeah, well, like I’ve already told you, you’re not my king. And I don’t like being bossed around. I’ve agreed to build you your arc reactor; it doesn’t exclude me from getting to have some fun in between.” He tries to draw himself up, hating that Loki is taller than him. “See, that’s also another thing that prisoners here on Earth are entitled to. Recreation time. Also, they get paid for their work, and you haven’t given me squat. So I’m taking my own payment in the form of some time off and playing with my cars.”

 

From the look on Loki’s face, he’s expecting the god to flip and slap him any second. Or punch him, whichever the case might be. But somehow, it looks as if Loki reigns in his anger, letting a controlled calm take over instead as his face draws into an expressionless mask.

 

“Like I said, you are bound both by honour and by law to abide my command, and I will not have further disobedience from you, Stark.” Loki’s face is still that emotionless mask, but his eyes are smouldering. “Nor will you speak to me with disrespect again.”

 

“Sorry, no deal.” He doesn’t even know why he’s provoking Loki like this, why he keeps pushing the god’s buttons, full well knowing what Loki is capable of. Perhaps it’s because he has precious little left to loose. Few things matter anymore in his current situation.

 

Loki ignores him. “Give me you hand,” he says, he command curt and clipped. “Your right one.”

 

Tony resists the urge to take a step back at the menace in that voice, opting for holding his ground. Whatever fear the god might instil in him, he’ll be damned if he’s going to show it.

 

After a few seconds when it’s clear that Tony isn’t going to comply, Loki reaches out and ungently snatches hold of Tony’s wrist, yanking him closer. The wrench he’s still holding falls out of his hand and gives a sharp clatter as it lands on the strip of floor between them.

 

The pressure on his wrist is painful enough for Tony to wince in discomfort, but he doesn’t make any sound, merely holds Loki’s gaze in silent protest as he wonders what the god is up to. He hates being close to Loki like this, the faint smell of leather surrounding him like a swarm of gnats one he’s grown to abhor already.

 

Then Loki suddenly makes a little twist of his hand, bending Tony’s wrist into an uncomfortable angle and increasing the pressure exerted on it. “I am Midgard’s king. And you will treat me as such,” he says, leaning in slightly over Tony as if to accentuate the spoken words.

 

And he really hates it when the god is going off on these entitled auto-repeat rants about being a rightful king and being owed all kinds of stuff. Especially from Tony.

 

“You know, I’m not actually-- _Ouch_!” he yelps as Loki’s fingers suddenly come up to forcefully wrap around his hand, snaking around it in a mockery of a loving caress, slowly squeezing down.

 

_Damn it._

 

“Okay, let me go already, you’re kinda hurting me here,” he manages, trying not to let his voice tense up, but failing miserably. The fingers only squeeze harder in response.

 

He tugs at his hand, trying to get Loki to let go of him, but the vise-like grip doesn’t let up for a second. The only thing that happens is that the pressure increases slowly but surely, grinding his bones together.

 

“Hey! What are you doing? Knock it off!” he half-shouts, hating the note of alarm interlacing the words.

 

Loki doesn’t answer, his face is as impassive as before as he makes another little twist of his hand, wrenching Tony’s wrist further and forcing him down to his knees to prevent the joint from snapping. But the pressure still won’t relent as Loki continues to squeeze, his long fingers having transformed into remorseless torture devices.

 

_Fuck_. His hand is turning into a lump of flaming agony, drawing an embarrassing little whimper from his lips. Probably, it won’t take much more until the bones will snap.

 

“What the _hell_ , Loki? Stop it, alright?” But he knows it’s useless before the words have even left his mouth; the god won’t listen or care. He’s out to hurt and punish.

 

_Tony and his big mouth._

 

Loki’s face doesn’t betray even a hint of any emotion as it hovers above Tony, looking down on him as if he were a maggot squirming on the ground. “You will use your hands as I have instructed, in the service of your king, or you will not use them at all,” he says evenly, sounding almost bored.

 

And with that, a spear of fear pierces right through him, sharp and terrible, cutting through the red-blazing pain. _What if Loki crushes his hand, what if he cripples him?_ He’s Tony Stark, inventing and building and creating is an irrevocable part of who he is. Sure, his genius might be what that defines him, but what if he no longer has the ability to make that genius take physical form and shape? Who will he be then? He’ll only be half of a man, half of Tony Stark.

 

That thought scares him more than almost anything, and it’s the only thing he can think of as the pale, impossibly strong hand relentlessly bears down on his own, slowly crushing it.

 

What if he will have to live for the rest of his life with access to his workshop, but without being able to use it, or ever build anything with his hands again?

 

No. _No._

 

And that fear is worse than pain or injury or even death. His own identity, being ripped out from him like that. And all it takes is a single crunch of that hand, and--

 

There’s a scream somewhere, and he only barely recognises it as his own.

 

His eyes are burning with the sting of tears, his vision blurry. He can’t even make out the lines and features of the face hovering above him; it’s just a blurb of pale surrounded by black.

 

And he hates himself for it, knows that he will always hate himself for it, but he can’t stop the words from forcing themselves out.

 

“Please, Loki, stop it… don’t do this, _please_.”

 

And suddenly, just like that, the agonizing pressure disappears, Loki’s hand letting go, pushing Tony aside.

 

Immediately and instinctively, Tony hunches up on himself, cradling his hand tightly to his chest. And it hurts, it hurts like a bitch, but at least the bones aren’t broken. He’s whole. He’s still Tony Stark. He could almost cry with relief.

 

Then Loki’s voice rings out somewhere seemingly from afar, cold and impassive. “You’re filthy, Stark. Go and get yourself cleaned up. You will resume your duties tomorrow.”

 

And with that the god turns on his heels and walks out, leaving Tony still curled up on the floor of his own workshop.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, his hand _almost_ isn’t hurting any longer. The humiliation and degradation of the whole incident is still burning at the back of his throat, though, from the memory of Loki reducing him to a whimpering, pleading mess with one twist of his hand, with one terrible threat of taking away Tony’s entire sense of self.

 

Truth be told, he’s still a little distraught too, getting a close-up demonstration like that of how easily Loki could have done what he was threatening to do. And the god wouldn’t have felt any remorse for it for even a second.

 

To add injury to insult, he hadn’t even gotten any gamma field readings from the god despite how the device had been lying in the pocket of his jeans. But the distance had been too great and the moment too short, so there had been nothing to show for it. He’d been disappointed as he had discreetly taken the reader out to look, making sure to turn and hold it in such an angle that he knew his hand would be in a blind spot for Jarvis.

 

Nothing.

 

Letting his head fall back to lean on top of the backrest of the couch, he sighs in frustration. Well, it figures not every part of his little project would run smoothly. After all, he got off on such a great start; of course he couldn’t expect things to last. But eventually, they will have to pick up again. Or he’s going to have to deliberately arrange something that will get him close enough to the god for the required amount of time.

 

Whatever that is going to be. The best he can think of right now is provoking Loki enough to punch him to the floor and then straddle him while trying to strangle him, but somehow that doesn’t seem like a particularly brilliant tactic worthy of the name Tony Stark.

 

But at least there is no hurry. There is still plenty of work to be done on the arc reactor and with the short snippets of workshop time he’s been given, Loki can’t expect him to have something ready for him in quite some time yet.

 

Pushing the thought away for the moment – he’s thought about it enough already today – he instead contemplates whether he should get himself a snack before heading off to bed. It’s still early by Tony Stark standards, just a few minutes past eleven, but given how he’s got nothing worthwhile to do, no projects to work on, his old habits of staying up until early morning have given way to a more standard daily rhythm.

 

_Well, some crackers, perhaps. Or a banana._ For probably the hundredth time, he wonders where the food in his kitchen is really coming from. Obviously, it’s Loki fixing it one way or the other, but whether it’s real food getting magically transplanted into his refrigerator from some outside source or somehow being actually _created_ by magic, he doesn’t know. But he sure hopes it’s the first alternative, because the second one is just too freaking disturbing to consider.

 

He’s only barely gotten up from the couch, having finally decided on the banana, when Jarvis suddenly addresses him.

 

“King Loki would like to see you at once on the top floor, Mr Stark.”

 

_Wonderful._

 

“For what?” he asks automatically, feeling his mood take a sharp downturn.

 

“I have not been informed of the reason, sir,” the AI replies, as if Tony didn’t already know the answer.

 

He draws a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead with his hand. At this time of hour – it’s well past eleven – his best bet is that it’s something similar to last time.

 

As revolting as the idea is of having to share a bed with Loki again, all snugly nestled up against the god, at least he can take some satisfaction in that it would also mean that Loki has gotten hurt again. And that in turn means that there are still people out there protesting his rule, refusing to just bend over and take it. Perhaps, one day some of those people will actually succeed, if Tony doesn’t get to it first.

 

Though, given how Loki seems to be rather impervious to physical assault – which was made all too obvious during the battle of New York – he probably shouldn’t hold his breath for it.

 

But still, isn’t this the moment he’s been waiting for? Playing huggy times with Loki, getting close enough to finally get those damn gamma readings off him? It’s the perfect opportunity. And fuck if he’s going to let that go to waste.

 

The gamma field reader is still safely nestled into his pocket. There’s just the little matter of keeping it close enough to the god during the night. But he can arrange that.

 

“Alright, Jarvis, I’m coming. Just gonna use the bathroom first, okay?”

 

“Very well, sir,” the AI graciously permits.

 

It doesn’t take too much sleight of hand to discreetly get the reader out of his pocket, palm it and then slip it into his underwear while rearranging his clothes after having taken care of business. Again, he finds himself fervently hoping that Jarvis isn’t in scanning mode, but at least he doesn’t say anything as Tony makes his way towards the elevator and steps inside.

 

As the elevator starts its ascent, he can’t help but feel a twinge of nervousness. If the god should get wind of what Tony is up, he’s not going to be having a very fun night ahead of him.


	16. Chapter 16

He doesn’t need any instructions where to go this time as the elevator comes to a halt at the top floor, having already been through this once. Still, it’s with nervous trepidation that he enters Loki’s room, hoping that the god’s magic isn’t going to somehow pick up on the reader Tony’s keeping in his underwear.

 

And given how their last encounter went, he’s not too big on the idea of even having to be in the same room as Loki again.

 

Loki is sitting at the desk as Tony enters, seemingly occupied with a pile of papers. Tony can’t help but snicker inwardly at the idea of a conquering god-dictator engaging in any form of paperwork, but the smile never reaches his lips.

 

Loki clearly hears him enter, but he doesn’t look up from his papers, as if Tony isn’t important. He’s probably doing it on purpose too, just to further accentuate who holds the power here and who gets to wait.

 

After perhaps a minute or so, Loki finally looks up, turning towards Tony with a bored expression. As he had expected – or at least hoped – the god’s face sports several lacerations, and it looks like he’s holding his arm a bit stiffly.

 

_So someone else had a go at you, didn’t they? Guess this world-ruling spiel is not going quite as smoothly as you had been hoping for, huh?_

 

“You took your time,” is all Loki says, looking at him with a disapproving expression. “I thought Jarvis instructed you to come here at once?” Green eyes are boring into him, as if they’re trying to see into his skull. Tony sure hopes that even if they’re able to see through bone, they can’t see through underwear, at least, or they’d notice the gamma reader snugly tucked away in there.

 

“Yeah, well, I was going to the bathroom. Us mortals have to do that sometimes,” he says, feeling a coil of unease at the question. _Is Loki suspecting something? Or has Jarvis noticed and already told him?_

 

The eyes don’t leave him for even a second. Tony tries not to squirm under the gaze.

 

“Hmm,” Loki eventually says, sounding like he’s actually willing to let the topic rest. Then he stands up in one slow, languid motion. “You already know what’s expected. Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.”

 

And it’s strange how a command like that that he never before considered to be anything other than hot as hell, can suddenly make his skin crawl with discomfort.

 

But it’s not like there’s any point in protesting or procrastinating. So just like last time, he strips, dropping the clothes to the floor right where he’s standing, and gets on the bed. Even now, he can feel a faint hint of Loki’s body odour emanating from the sheets. Somehow, he wonders if he will ever be able to breathe in the smell of leather again without gagging.

 

He watches, without really wanting to, as Loki divests of his own clothes, revealing skin that is not nearly as blemished as last time. Mostly, it seems to just be the arm that’s still held in a somewhat awkward manner, as well as the injuries to his face, that ail him.

 

“So what happened this time?” The question slips out of his mouth by its own volition. “Another assassination attempt?”

 

Loki turns his eyes to Tony, his facial expression flat, from where he’s seated in his chair, untying his right leather boot.

 

“A minor… incident,” the god says with a shrug. “The perpetrators have all been dealt with.”

 

He doesn’t offer any more details, and Tony doesn’t bother asking. Perhaps it will be on the news tomorrow. Or perhaps not, if Loki wants to keep the more blatant evidence of his non-popularity out of the open. Or maybe he’ll turn it into some sort of propaganda piece, using it to his own ends. Perhaps further cultivating the picture of himself as the magnificent and invincible god, unaffected by measly human assault. He wonders if Loki has a whole staff of media relation experts helping him with that. Or propaganda makers, whatever they’re called nowadays. Who knows.

 

Then, Loki has finished undressing and walks around the bed to lie down next to Tony. He suppresses a wince as the expected arm snakes around him, glad that his back is turned so that Loki can’t see his face. And Tony doesn’t have to see his.

 

Still, it’s even more uncomfortable than last time, because now he has the gamma reader in his underwear and he’s half-expecting to be called out on it by Loki, that the god has somehow noticed the little addition that Tony carried with him to bed. Given what happened in the workshop a few days ago, he doesn’t want to think about what the consequences would be if Loki were to find out.

 

“You seem tense, Stark,” Loki suddenly breathes right into his ear, the arm around Tony like a vise. “Any particular reason why that is?”

 

The hairs on his neck stand up a little at that. Or at least it feels like they do.

 

“Yeah, well, I usually tend to feel a bit uncomfortable being in close proximity to people who’ve been a hair’s breadth from crushing some body part of mine,” he answers, trying to ignore the way his heart is beating staccato drum whirls in his chest.

 

“Is that so,” Loki says, and it’s not really a question, but Tony answers with a ‘yeah’ anyway.

 

Loki doesn’t speak further, and Tony wills his beating heart to relax. It seems that the god has fallen asleep rather quickly, though he’s really just guessing; he has no idea whether Loki is awake or not, but at least he doesn’t move and his breaths are slow and regular.

 

And as much as he was hoping that the arm would let up during the god’s sleep, it’s still pressing him as tightly against Loki’s chest as before.

 

_Possessive bastard_.

 

He notices how Loki doesn’t even seem to have any body hair, and for some reason that just makes the whole thing more disturbing. He can’t even remember if Thor had any; maybe all gods are like that, or maybe it’s just Loki.

 

At that, his mind wanders to the unresolved question of what happened to his fellow Avengers, if he’s the only one still alive. If Loki had his own brother killed, be it brother by adoption or not.

 

He doesn’t particularly want to follow that line of thought, so instead his mind returns to the little reader lying in his underwear. The edge of it is pressing into his skin, but he can handle the mild discomfort. As long as he will have gotten some decent readings tomorrow, this night will have been totally worth it.

 

* * *

 

Just like last time, he’s woken up by Loki impassively shaking his shoulder, rustling him out of his sleep.

 

Tony rolls over, blinking. It’s dark outside, so it’s still early in the morning. _Does Loki always get up at this time, or did his magic juices just get refilled and he wants Tony out of his bed so he can go back to sleep without having any unwanted bed partners lying around?_

 

In a way – even though he doesn’t want to spend a second longer under Loki’s sheets than necessary – that’s even more insulting, having the god kick him out of bed as soon as he’s sapped all the necessary power from the arc reactor, as opposed to simply waiting until morning.

 

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, about to stand up and get his clothes when Loki speaks up, uncharacteristically quietly.

 

“You humans sure are an ungrateful lot, aren’t you?”

 

Tony turns to look at the god over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow, even though it sounds more like Loki is speaking to himself than to Tony.

 

The god’s fingers are slowly trailing across his own arm, the one that he had held so stiffly yesterday, though it appears to have healed up all nicely again, thanks to Tony’s unwilling contributions.

 

Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut, but he doesn’t. _Because seriously, does Loki still really find it so surprising that people would resent him and his takeover of Earth?_

 

“And exactly what is it we should be grateful for?” he asks, almost regretting it instantly. He doesn’t want to set off another monologue containing some random combination of the parts ‘made to be ruled’, ‘Midgard’s rightful king’, ‘you owe me’, and what other self-entitled crap might be going through Loki’s head.

 

Loki cocks his head into Tony’s direction, his fingers still moving across his upper arm as if ensuring that there is no damage left. “That I have accepted the position as ruler of your realm,” he says, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

_Here we go again._

 

Maybe he should say something, but it’s still too early in the morning to even go there. And it’s not like deluded madmen are ever persuaded by logic and reason anyway. There is no needle in the universe sharp enough to prickle Loki’s bubble of superiority. Tony will just be wasting his breath trying.

 

So he turns away, not even deigning that shit with an answer. He has a shower to take.

 

“Do you even realize what would have happened to your world, had I not claimed it as mine?” Loki says behind him, as if amused by Tony’s reaction.

 

“Oh, I don’t know, I guess we would have kept living our short and insignificant human lives as we were?” Tony says, not even bothering hiding the sarcasm.

 

Loki snorts. “Wrong. You would all be dead. Each and every one of you, and if not today, then tomorrow. However, I have saved you from that fate by agreeing to take this realm under my protection and rule. If not, Thanos would have claimed it instead,” he says, as if it’s obvious who Thanos is.

 

“What are you talking about?” Tony asks, deciding that he might as well bite. “Who is Thanos?”

 

Loki gives him the hint of a smile. “Thanos… is a being of myth and shadows, far more powerful than any of you humans could ever imagine. You should be glad you never had to cross his path. He was after the Tesseract you kept here in your world, despite none of you having the slightest clue of how to wield such power. But he and I struck a deal – his Chitauri army to help me conquer Midgard, in exchange for the Tesseract.” The smile grows wider, making the underlying bones of the god’s face stand out in stark relief. “And I assure you, if Thanos had come for the Tesseract himself, he would not have spared your realm or a single living soul. He would have had Midgard annihilated, and there is nothing you could have done to stand against him.”

 

_Thanos?_ Tony has no idea if Loki is just making shit up, but whatever.

 

“Assuming that is all true, you still aided him,” Tony points out. “Why couldn’t he have come in person, if he’s so big and mighty?”

 

Loki waves a hand. “Ah, you mortals know so little of the universe and its workings, don’t you? But let’s just say that Thanos has a bit of a… traversing problem. He’s not nearly as adept at travelling through the realms as easily and effortlessly as I am,” he says, the smile gone, now. “But rest assured, he would have come eventually and with the Tesseract now in his hands, traversing space is no longer a hindrance to him. However, Midgard has been granted to me, on my demand, and Thanos will respect our deal. Your realm holds little interest to him anyway. He is after much grander things than this.” He sweeps out as if to indicate the room, but probably intending to encompass the rest of the planet as well.

 

“But it was good enough for _you_ , this puny realm of ours?” Tony asks. “How come you didn’t ask for something grander in return for services rendered while you were at it? Like, I don’t know… say, Asgard, for instance?”

 

In the darkness of the room, it’s hard to read Loki’s facial expression, but Tony can see it shift, and not towards the sunnier side of the mood scale.

 

“I have ruled Asgard once. I have no desire to be its king again,” he says, voice low and sharp. “And I don’t like your tone, Stark. You might want to consider adjusting it.”

 

_Yeah, the god is an easily pricked creature alright._

 

But he really doesn’t feel up to dealing with any sudden outbursts of violence on Loki’s part right now. If nothing else, the gamma reader in his underwear might fall out in the resulting scuffle, and his big plans end up all exposed. So instead, he holds up his hands in a disarming gesture.

 

“Alright, sorry, just asking here, since you didn’t seem too impressed with our planet so far. Just thought you could have asked for something… more in your style.”

 

“The number of realms isn’t endless, Stark,” Loki answers. “Midgard is suitable enough. Besides, few realms than yours are in more desperate need of a ruler.”

 

Tony can’t help but roll his eyes at that. Loki will hardly see it in the darkness anyway. “Actually, we already _had_ rulers before you entered the stage. A whole bunch of them, even. And even more wanna-bes hoping for a position in the top-tiers.”

 

Loki scoffs. “That was always your problem, wasn’t it? Too many rulers, all of them weak and indecisive, splintering your realm into many little pieces constantly at odds with each other, bickering among yourselves, instead of uniting under one strong leader.”

 

“You know, we’ve had a few people trying that approach as well, but none of them ever succeeded.”

 

“Then they were obviously going about it the wrong way,” Loki dismisses his argument.

 

“And razing good parts of the planet to the ground is supposed to be a better approach?”

 

This time Loki actually slaps him, but the lacklustre force behind it makes it seem more like a warning than anything else.

 

_Bitch_.

 

“That part was your own fault. If you had never put up your futile resistance, none of this destruction would have happened in the first place. However, now that humanity has finally come together under one strong ruler, it is time to look forward. What was destroyed is being rebuilt, and already most of your petty infighting has ceased and your civil wars come to an end. Because you now have one common king.”

 

More like one common enemy, but as he’s not particularly feeling up to being bitch-slapped again, he chooses not to comment.

 

“You will see, Stark,” Loki says, confident and self-assured as ever. “Midgard will become a stronger realm under my rule than it has ever been before, and humanity will be all the better for it.”


	17. Chapter 17

The readings turn out to be perfect. Having taken one quick, discreet look at the display, confining the number to memory, he can now slip the little gamma reader back into its drawer in the workshop, carefully set back to zero again to rid himself of any incriminating evidence. Not that it’s really necessary – if Jarvis had noticed anything suspicious he would already have reported it to Loki by now, and all hell would have broken loose – but he might as well, just in case.

 

It’s almost too good, almost too perfect. Heck, not even a simple calculator is required to determine the strength of the opposite energy field that will be needed; he can solve a relatively straightforward equation like that in his head.

 

He whistles softly to himself as he fiddles with the arc reactor slowly taking shape under his hands, his mood better than it has been for quite a while. So far his plan has been coming along without any major snags, and now there’s only the final stage of construction left.

 

He hasn’t been allowed down in the workshop for several days until this morning, but since getting those hard-earned readings from the god, he’s had plenty of time to think about how to solve the problem at hand. A little bit of ionized adamantium – almost impossible to get to react with anything in its normal state, but in its ionized form the material changes properties altogether, emanating a field that will set off a wild reaction if it comes into close contact with a secondary gamma ray field.

 

_Yeah, he’ll make an addition to that arc reactor alright._

 

He finds himself immensely grateful for his own paranoiac suspiciousness, well-honed over the years of having to deal with unscrupulous competitors and shady businessmen and greedy investors, that caused him to store the final secrets of the blueprints to his greatest invention, the arc reactor, in his memory only. Not even Jarvis has been privy to them, just to be sure. Not that he ever imagined that someone would be able to hack their way through his AI’s firewalls and security protocols, but still, it never hurts to be careful. The main parts of the blueprints are there, but without the final touches, they’re almost useless. Like a competitor getting his hands on the lion share of the Coca Cola recipe, but with those few secret ingredients of myth and legend missing. Without them, the other ninety-eight percent would hardly be worth a thing.

 

No, not even Jarvis knows the final stages of construction, or Loki could have easily found himself a more loyal engineer or scientist to build his arc reactor for him, someone who had sworn him that goddam _fealty_ that the god keeps harping on about. There would have been no need for him to enlist the help of its original inventor. But with things being as they are, now Loki has to deal with Tony Stark and his deceitful ways instead.

 

He almost grins, but stops himself before the corners of his mouth have barely even twitched, settling for a serious, focused expression instead. Who knows, Jarvis might get suspicious if Tony starts looking too happy, realizing he’s up to something. No doubt the AI has been following every step during the making of the softly glowing piece on the workbench, comparing them to the digitally stored blueprints and instructions to make sure that everything is in proper order, even though the details of most of today’s work is missing from that data.

 

And he hates that, how Jarvis is now his adversary, working against him as opposed to with him. His _enemy_ , even. It’s not _right_. Sure Jarvis has been occasionally tripping him up in the past, but even then it had been with Tony’s best in mind, when Tony had been drunk or otherwise about to do something very stupid. But now the AI is instead looking out for _Loki’s_ best.

 

He ignores the little sting inside of him at that.

 

Though he has to admit, if he’d known it would come down to this, he wouldn’t have given Jarvis that smug accent of his. He’s never realized until now how annoying it can truly be when it’s speaking up in his disfavour.

 

But he banishes those thoughts; he has more important things on his mind and in his hands right now.

 

There is a stash of ionized adamantium in one of the canisters in the cabinet to his left. The stuff is useful for a lot of things (and damn expensive to boot), which is good, because that means that Jarvis will be less suspicious of him making use of it for the arc reactor as well. There’s even some adamantium of the normal, unionized kind in the alloy making up the casing, so that’s another reason why adding some more of it will hopefully not come off as strange in any way.

 

He won’t be needing much. Thirteen point four seven six grams, to be exact. Of course, it’s only an educated guess, given the limited data and the uncertain assumptions he’s had to make regarding the physical properties of Loki’s magic. But it’s what he has at his disposal, and when he stuffs all of it into the correct formula, thirteen point four seven six grams is what comes out at the other end, so that’s what he’s going to roll with.

 

And hope that it will be good enough.

 

Trying to act unperturbed, he walks the few steps over to the cabinet housing the adamantium and rummages around for a few seconds before he finds the correct canister among the dozens lying around in a disorganized array on the shelves. _Ionized adamantium industry grade 3,_ _25 grams_ , it says on the neatly printed label. Great. He won’t even be needing all of it.

 

He unscrews the lid, and then reaches for the electronic scales lying half hidden under an old blueprint of some upgrade he’d been planning to add to his suit. He can’t even remember what it was now, but it’s not like it matters. Not anymore.

 

As carefully as he can manage, he spoons the contents onto the tray poised on the scales, meticulously measuring out the correct amount. The metal comes in the shape of a fine powder, the unique material that is otherwise so strong and resistant to physical manipulation easily falling into dust once it’s been ionized.

 

He fiddles for a little while to get the measurements right, but is satisfied when the display shows thirteen point four eight two instead of the calculated three point four seven six grams. It’s close enough, and with the assumptions that he’s put into his calculations, it’s hardly going to be exact to start with in the first place.

 

For a little while, he watches the gray powder as it twinkles softly in the light of his workshop, making sure to breathe as slowly and shallowly as he can as to not disperse the almost weightless little specks in the air around him. It’s hard to believe that they might have the potential to take down a god, or at least set off the reaction that will, coupled with his arc reactor.

 

_If it works, that is._

 

But he ignores that possibility. Given the physical properties of the inherent parts, there is no way that it _can’t_ work. He tells himself that, and then picks up the dropper and the glass of water that he’s already prepared, sucking up a few small droplets and then letting them slowly drip onto the little tray containing the adamantium powder. It reacts instantly with the liquid, creating a pliable paste easy to mould and form, like a ridiculously expensive version of Play-Doh.

 

He picks up the little lump, rolling it between his fingers a few times, and then dots it along the inner surface of the plastic tray, making sure to scoop up any remaining specks. The feeling of the swollen, coagulated material is odd, cold and warm at once, and surprisingly smooth to the touch.

 

_So far, so good._

 

The only part left now is to attach the clay-like substance to the arc reactor in a natural and inconspicuous way, as if it’s actually supposed to be there. But he’s figured that one out already.

 

Having rolled the little piece of pliant material into a thin string, he grabs hold of the reactor casing and proceeds to fasten it along the rim, making it look like it’s some sort of sealant. It makes sense. Ionized adamantium, when mixed with water and then left to dry, will form an extremely strong adhesive that is as good as impenetrable to liquids or corrosives, even during long-time exposure. And it would be perfectly reasonable to make sure that a precious item like an arc reactor would be safely contained within its casing, after all.

 

Hoping that he’s merely imagining the minute trembling of his fingers, he reaches out for the reactor and slowly slides it into its awaiting sheath, shielding the thin ring of adamantium from view. But it’s there, ready to do its work, and that’s all that matters.

 

There are just some last few adjustments left on the reactor itself before it’s fully finished, the final touches best performed after it’s been put into its casing.

 

Yes, a few more minor things, and then he will be ready to present his creation to Loki. On the outside it looks just like the reactor sitting in Tony’s chest, but he knows there is one crucial difference. One that will hopefully be enough to put an end to Loki’s reign of terror once and for all.

 

* * *

 

The handing over of the arc reactor is anticlimactic to say the least. Jarvis simply tells him to leave the finished product on the workbench and he will relay the information of its completion to Loki, and that’s that. Tony throws his Lexus 190 a wistful look before walking out of the workshop and into the elevator, but decides that it’s not worth it. Staying and tinkering with it after Jarvis has instructed him to leave now that his assignment is finished will only serve to piss Loki off, and even if he pretends that that previous episode with Loki and the Lexus never happened, it would be both stupid and risky to rock the boat at this particular point in time.

 

He swallows as the elevator carries him back to the living room area, his stomach making a stabbing roll. His knees are feeling uncharacteristically wobbly and he leans back against the far wall for a few seconds, trying to ground himself as he inhales deeply.

 

_It’s done. It’s finished._ And now all he has left to do is wait. Wait for Loki to go pick the reactor up. Wait for him to find out or not find out about the secret extra. Wait for it to work. Or for it not to work. For whatever consequences that will follow.

 

Somehow, it was so much easier staying calm as long as he actually worked on the thing, held it in his hands and fiddled with his tools and performed his calculations, keeping hands as well as head occupied. But now it’s all out of his control, and he can do no more than passively wait.

 

_What if Loki finds out? What if his plan doesn’t work?_ He’s hinged so much on it that he can’t even imagine the alternative. His plan for revenge, for belatedly saving the world, for retribution on behalf of the other Avengers and everyone else who’s died or had their lives torn apart, it all comes down to this. If Loki discovers what Tony’s done or survives the gamma field combustion unscathed enough, he won’t get another chance. He’ll be dead before he can even say ‘fuck’.

 

Or actually, that evaluation is probably way too optimistic, as Loki would surely be more likely to consider ‘slow and painful’ a more appropriate manner for a traitor’s death.

 

He pushes the possibility away – _he’s designed the thing, of course it’s going to work as planned_. Afghanistan worked out alright, didn’t it, and the odds were probably worse stacked back then, with his having to go up against a whole slew of enemies as opposed to just a single one.

 

One who also happens to be a near immortal and invulnerable alien god with superpowers.

 

Well, be that as it may, even alien gods aren’t exempt from the effects of the forces of nature and laws of physics. Or at least they _shouldn’t_ be. In a perfect world. Then again, in a perfect world, the forces of good would have triumphed instead of being forced under the rule of a space megalomaniac.

 

_Shut up, brain._

 

He startles at the soft ping announcing the end of the elevator ride, and it takes a couple of seconds before he can bring his legs to move and walk out of the small space.

 

Has Jarvis informed Loki yet that the king’s order has been delivered? Is said king already inspecting the finished product? Has he noticed that something is off? Will there be an explosion any second as the forceful chain reaction is set in motion by Loki’s magic coming into contact with the adamantium’s surrounding force field? Will there be a roar of rage as Loki’s magic is ripped from him and burnt out? Or--

 

With an effort, he halts his escalating train of thought. He especially forcefully pushes the nagging worry down of what is going to happen if his sabotage doesn’t have the desired effect and what Loki is going to do to him in retaliation.

 

Instead, he makes himself a sandwich and plops another DVD into the player. There is little else to do, given how he’s not allowed any of his usual toys, such as his computer or workshop, and Jarvis has so far prohibited any tinkering with whatever objects of a technological nature that are still left on this floor. The memory of how the AI had spoken up when Tony had once pried the back of an old alarm clock open to pick it apart is still fresh and sore, one of the first pointers as to how he’s now forbidden anything and everything that makes everyday life worthwhile.

 

When the movie is over, he paces restlessly for a few minutes before deciding to read something to put his nerves at ease. Despite the abundance of time he hasn’t read many of the books still remaining on the shelves – the ones that haven’t been _confiscated_ or whatever word Loki would use – since his return here since most of them concern engineering or science in some form of the other, and now that he’s no longer to do either except on Loki’s command, reading about it only makes a sour taste fill his mouth.

 

So instead, he settles for some lame book filled with supposed witticisms, some gift he’s received from someone he can’t even remember now, the kind of book you’d give someone without really expecting them to ever read it past a few cursory glances. Despite not wanting to consider it, he wonders if whoever gave him that book is even alive now, or if he perished in the invasion or the ensuing battles.

 

He thumbs through the thin book, reading a section here and then there, flips a few pages, jumps a section or two forwards when the current one bores him. It’s not very funny, but at least it’s better than his constantly gnawing mind.

 

And then, Jarvis’ voice suddenly rings out, interrupting a tedious paragraph listing the ostensibly numerous parallels between politicians and pigs.

 

“King Loki would like to see you about the arc reactor.” A short pause, during which Tony freezes with his page-flipping hand hovering stiffly in mid-air. “At _once_ , Mr Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-da-dun…


	18. Chapter 18

The little light on the elevator panel showing the floor number seems to be crawling upwards with a pace that a snail on crutches would have found easy to outrun. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to pretend that he doesn’t have to clench them to stop them from shaking.

 

_‘About the arc reactor’,_ Jarvis had specifically stated, for once volunteering information that Tony hadn’t even asked for. He isn’t sure whether that’s a good or a bad sign. Does it mean that Loki has noticed that something is amiss and is now about to confront Tony with his treachery? Maybe he’s about to get flung out from his own window a second time by the deluded god? Or maybe Loki just wants to ask him some question or the other? Perhaps he wants Tony to put the thing to the test and insert it into his own chest to prove that it works as intended and isn’t dangerous? Well, not dangerous to _Tony_ , that is; to Loki it would obviously be a different matter with his magical mojo. He _hopes_ that Loki isn’t going to be a smart guy and insist on Tony handing his old reactor over and take the newly made one instead, as to effectively neutralize any attempts of sabotage. At least he was far-sighted enough to not make the new arc reactor size-compatible with the casing in his chest, so he will at least have that line of defence why such a solution won’t do and hopefully another shot down in his workshop for a plan B, if it should come to that.

 

_Or maybe all that is moot, because Loki knows exactly what he has done, knows all about the adamantium lining inside the casing and the effects it will have when it comes into contact with his magic._

 

He swallows. Couldn’t Loki just have taken the damn thing and run with it? There are few things he can envision right now that he would feel less like doing than standing before the crazy maniac, painfully aware of what he’s done.

 

After a small eternity filled with anguishing and worrying, the elevator stops and the doors swish open. Feigning confidence and suave, Tony walks out with his head held high, trying to act as if everything is normal. As if he hasn’t just given Loki what amounts to the equivalent of a mail bomb with his name and address printed right on top.

 

He chooses to ignore the trickle of cold sweat running down his back as he walks down the hallway.

 

Loki’s back is turned when Tony enters the room, but given the soft blue glow around the god’s edges it’s all-too-obvious what he’s currently holding in his hands, head bowed down in focused inspection.

 

Tony clenches his jaw. _Alright, here goes nothing._

 

“So, what’s up? Playing with your new toy?” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, knowing that he might be less than one second away from being struck down by magic lightening and turned into a heap of smouldering ashes.

 

Loki turns, and Tony holds his breath for that one frightful moment before the god’s face comes into view, showing not a storm of black thunderclouds drawing together at the sight of the vile and abominable traitor, but something that Tony would probably, for lack of a better word, describe as, well, _happy_.

 

“Ah, Stark,” the god says, and there is even a smile on his face, now. A surprisingly normal smile to boot, not one of his usual psycho-grins.

 

And that’s really unnerving, almost as much as seeing the arc reactor lying in Loki’s long-fingered hands, its eerie glow not quite reaching the god’s face.

 

“It is truly a marvellous creation, I must say,” Loki continues, making a brief nod towards the item in his grip, as if it wasn’t already obvious what he was referring to. The minute motion makes the light appear to flicker for a brief second, and it is with a momentous effort that Tony manages to pull his gaze away from it and instead meet with Loki’s eyes.

 

“Yeah, I know. I designed and built it, after all,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s of no consequence. The heady relief swirling inside of him is almost as potent as a physical blow – _Loki has not noticed anything out of the ordinary. Maybe his plan is really going to work out, after all._

 

He resists the temptation to take a step back and put some distance between them. Obviously, Loki has yet to bring his magic into contact with the reactor or _something_ should have happened already, and Tony isn’t overly keen on the idea of that _something_ happening while _he_ happens to be standing in the immediate vicinity. Even if a gamma ray field cancellation is usually a highly contained and short-lived – albeit extremely violent – phenomenon, with two such immense sources of power as Loki’s magic and the arc reactor coming into contact with each other, the chain reaction might just spread a little bit further than he would like.

 

_But if he has to go down as well in order to create a Loki-free world, then so be it. It’s in the hero job description, isn’t it?_

 

Loki only makes a small, non-committing sound, his fingers lovingly stroking the reactor, as if he can feel the power contained within. Most likely, he actually can.

 

But to Tony’s surprise, the most disquieting thing isn’t seeing that reactor in those insanely dangerous hands, or the thought of what may or may not happen in the very or less very near future because of it, but it’s how Loki looks fucking _happy_ , like a kid having received a clamoured-for gift that he’s nagged his parents about since last Christmas. Or, worse, like a kid who’s never received any gifts from anyone at all before. He looks so damn pleased, the wide smile plastered across his face seemingly taking several centuries off him.

 

More than anything, he looks like some little giddy boy. And it’s disturbing as hell to imagine Loki as a kid, especially considering the usual clichéd, idealized notions of innocence and purity and whatnot that usually come attached to the concept of childhood nowadays, so he pushes the thought away. He doesn’t want to think about Loki having once been a little kid. It just seems so impossible to reconcile that thought with reality. The god is a cold-blooded mass murderer, for fuck’s sake.

 

Then again, maybe Loki was one of those sadistic brats who’d pull legs off bugs and that sort of thing. Isn’t that how the psychologists on all those Discovery Channel documentaries say that guys like him usually begin?

 

“See how much easier everything is when you simply agree to serve your king to your best efforts?” Loki says, still looking like a kid with a big candy stick. “Isn’t that more pleasing than being recalcitrant and uncooperative?”

 

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re happy with your plaything, Loki,” Tony says, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “So if I’m not needed for anything else right now, I think I’d rather head back down again. See, I was reading this really interesting treaty about the similarities between animals of the porcine variety and--“

 

Loki cuts him off, ignoring his rambling.

 

“You are a highly skilled craftsman, a man of scholarship and intelligence, as well as a brave warrior,” the god says, his eyes not leaving Tony’s for a second. “You are worthy of serving your king and putting your skills into his use. So why don’t you pledge yourself to me, and you could have considerably more freedom than you are currently allowed?”

 

_As if._ “I have another idea,” he says, nodding towards the reactor cradled in Loki’s palms. “How about letting me go instead as thanks for services well rendered?”

 

Loki’s eyebrows draw together a few notches, his happy-sunny face fading a shade or two, but his voice still has the same open quality to it as before when he speaks again, as usual ignoring whatever Tony just said.

 

“If there is one thing I have learned here on Midgard, it is how few mortals are actually worthy and accomplished in any sense. So many of your kind treasure possessions and useless trinkets above all else, while indulging in meaningless entertainment and lazy pleasures. Few have bothered to attain any learning or knowledge to speak of.” He makes a pause, eyes narrowing, and out of the long list of things that don’t please Loki regarding his mortal subjects, it’s obvious he is just about to mention the most obnoxious aspect of them all.

 

“And your so-called leaders are all _weak_.” The god raises his chin, as if in defiance. “How many of them came out to face me and my army in battle? I tell you, Stark – no one, not a single one. Instead, they sent their soldiers out to fight.” He scoffs, making a dismissive gesture with the hand that’s not currently busy gripping the arc reactor. “A real ruler rides out into battle with his men, in first line, to strike down an attacking enemy. However, none of your leaders did, they all hid like frightened little rabbits in their bunkers, expecting someone else to fight their wars for them. How _pitiful_ is that!”

 

“Yeah, well, modern-day combat has progressed quite a bit since the old days of swords ‘n glory.” He shrugs. “Heck, I’m sure I’ve personally contributed to the current state of warfare technology more than any other single person in history, if I’m to be honest here.”

 

Again, Loki makes no acknowledgement that he has heard Tony at all.

 

“ _You_ however, are different,” the god intones in a low voice, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “You could rise high in my service, with riches and powers and opportunities others of your kind could only dream of.”

 

“Uh, actually, I already _did_ have all of that stuff before, you know, you came around and started running the show,” Tony points out, knowing he’s probably pushing it here but since Loki is in a good albeit somewhat creepy mood, the god can probably take it. “But as it is, I’d actually be perfectly happy if you’d just let me go, because being cooped up in here is starting to grow kinda thin. Some of us do like our freedom, no matter what our current king’s philosophy on the matter is.”

 

A crinkle of annoyance is slowly but surely starting to appear in the space between the god’s thin eyebrows. “You mortals, so obsessed with the concept of ‘freedom’,” Loki says, derision in his voice. “Let go of such foolish notions and instead know that I much treasure loyalty in my subjects, and will reward it generously when it is freely given.”

 

“Loyalty,” Tony snorts, unable to stop himself. “Says the guy who killed his own _brother_.” Okay, so he didn’t actually see Loki do it, but there’s no question that Thor is dead, killed in the battle of New York, or – even though that possibility is more disturbing – after it was all over.

 

For a fraction of a second he’s certain that Loki is going to lash out with violence – _and will he ever learn to keep his mouth shut?_ – but a moment later the god composes himself, as if nothing has happened, the dangerous glint in his eyes having faded.

 

“Thor isn’t dead,” comes the answer, dismissive and curt. “Even though I could of course have had him killed, had I wanted to.”

 

_He isn’t?_ He feels a little speck of hope flare inside of him at that possibility, even if he full well knows that Loki might be making shit up, spoon-feeding him lies that he knows that Tony wants to hear.

 

“So is he currently being tortured in some custom-made dungeon, then?” Tony quips, trying to sound light-hearted, while desperately hoping that Thor has met a more merciful fate than that. Though with Loki as the victor, he won’t count on it.

 

“Enough with your outrageous assumptions, Stark,” Loki says, clearly annoyed, now. “My foster brother is in Asgard, and will not be returning to this realm.”

 

_In Asgard?_

 

“In Asgard?” he manages, mouth dumbly mirroring his thoughts. He never considered that possibility, and it fails to make much sense. Why would Thor be there?

 

“Yes, _Asgard_ ,” Loki repeats, drawing himself up a little. Pre-empting the questions burning on the tip of Tony’s tongue, he continues in an indulgent tone of voice. “Thor was wounded and captured during the battle of New York. I could of course have had him executed in the aftermath, as was my right as the victor, but as I am a most magnanimous ruler I instead opted to use the power of the sceptre to open a portal to Asgard and send him back to his own realm where he can no longer bother me.”

 

And he has no idea if Loki is lying through his teeth or not, but for once he finds himself _hoping_ that the god is telling the truth. And who knows, maybe that means that Thor will return, with the mighty forces of Asgard in tow, ready and willing to fight for Earth’s freedom.

 

As if hearing Tony’s thoughts, Loki continues, almost lazily. “Of course, I had the remains of the Bifrost sealed off while I was at it to prevent it from being repaired and used. The Aesir are trapped in their own realm. So you can rest assured that Thor will not be coming back here, and neither will Asgard be sending its forces to Midgard’s aid. Because they _can’t_.”

 

_Well, there went that little flicker of hope, quickly extinguished. But if Thor is still alive, maybe that means that there’s a tiny chance that…_

 

He hates asking, fully expecting Loki to hold off the information as a bargain chip, trying to force Tony into some deal that involves some kind of _oath_ or _pledge_ or _fealty_ or any of those other big words that get the god off.

 

But he asks anyway, throwing caution to the wind. He just has to know, and maybe Loki will consider it an acceptable concession in exchange for the arc reactor.

 

“What about the other Avengers?” he asks before the god can go off on some other self-righteous tangent.

 

Loki raises an eyebrow in Tony’s direction, as if contemplating the answer before replying. “Yes. What about them?”

 

_You know what._

 

“Is anyone else still alive?” He decides on a name, intending to make the question more specific and harder to evade. “What about Bruce? Also known as the Hulk – you know, the giant green rage monster,” he adds, not sure if Loki knows or remembers their names. And Tony liked Bruce. Even if they only met just before everything went to hell, he’d enjoyed their scientific discussions. He would have liked to get to know the man better, even if he knows that will never happen now, of course.

 

“He lives,” Loki answers languidly. “Of course, I had to use my sceptre to drain him of his extraordinary powers, but despite the circumstances I didn’t get the impression that he was too sad about parting with the Beast for good.”

 

“Did you brainwash him into a mindless zombie too while you were at it?” Tony throws out, the accusation immediate and reflexive.

 

“I don’t know why you seem so fond of thinking I would resort to the crude mind-controlling powers of the sceptre all over the place for no good reason.” Green eyes are boring into Tony, who resists the urge to squirm beneath the stare. “In any case, I had no use for him, and he is certainly no threat to me as a mere mortal, so in the end I let him go. He seemed very… adamant about being allowed to use his skills as a healer to help the wounded from the battle.”

 

_Well isn’t Loki the philanthropist. If there’s even a hint of truth to what he’s saying, or if he’s just making up whatever shit Tony wants to hear._

 

“And the Captain? The guy in spandex-tight blue-red-and-white?” Admittedly, he never liked Steve that much, but at least he was a good guy who deserved better than getting ripped to shreds by a bunch of bug-eyed aliens and their psycho leader.

 

“He also survived the battle and was taken prisoner towards the end of it. Though in his case, it took a bit more persuasion to convince him to cease his pointless resistance and instead put his considerable strength to good use in cleaning up and rebuilding the cities that had been damaged.”

 

He wonders what kind of persuasion Loki is talking about, but he doubts the Captain would break under torture. Probably the god threatened to kill some innocents or something. But he decides not to ask, because he isn’t sure he wants to know.

 

“What about Natasha and Clint?” Not that he particularly cares about them on a personal level, but they were part of the team, so their fates count too.

 

“The assassins. They live as well,” is all Loki says, and Tony doesn’t press for further details, because, well, he knows he might prefer not to hear them. “Like I said, I am a magnanimous ruler, and I can afford to be merciful and let my enemies live, having fought so bravely though in the end fruitlessly.”

 

_No flattery like self-flattery, is there?_

 

“But enough of that,” Loki says with a dismissive wave of his hand before Tony can ask anything else. “Like I said, you should well consider the benefits of swearing loyalty and allegiance to me, and you will be richly rewarded for faithful service to your king.”

 

“No thanks, but some free time down in my workshop would be nice, now that you’ve gotten your reactor and all for free.” _Hey, it’s worth a try, at least._

 

At that, the last shreds of Loki’s good mood evaporate as he takes a step towards Tony, a hand reaching out to grab hold of his shirt, tugging at the fabric. “For the last time, Stark, _do not make demands of your king_.” The final words are more of a hiss than anything else, and Tony holds up his hands as a gesture of peace, quite sure his heels aren’t actually touching the ground anymore.

 

“Okay, got it,” he hurries to get out before his throat constricts too much from the fabric pressing around it. _Shit_. “Totally, absolutely got it.”

 

The hand brusquely lets go, making Tony stumble in relief.

 

“And make sure to _remember_ it this time.”


	19. Chapter 19

And somehow, slowly but certainly, the days turn into normalcy again – well, whatever fucked up-ness counts as normalcy these days for him in this place – as they blend into each other, dissolving into a dull, gray sludge of nothingness.

 

Nothing happens. Loki doesn’t call on him, only teleports by a couple of times to deliver some brief speech on the merits of serving one’s king loyally and faithfully. Or something of the sort, Tony isn’t really listening anymore.

 

But apart from that, there is nothing else, and he’s slowly but certainly starting to despair.

 

The previous nervousness and anxiety that had been clawing at his insides while he was still waiting for Loki to make use of the arc reactor have worn off. He’s living in a semi-daze, now, without purpose, without meaning. So many days have passed since he handed the thing over, and maybe nothing is _going_ to happen. Maybe he’s miscalculated, made the wrong assumptions. Maybe Loki’s magic operates by entirely un-Earthly, non-physics-compliant standards and the adamantium won’t have the intended effect at all. Maybe the god already used the reactor to heal himself and it worked just fine, not giving him even as much as a rash in the process.

 

_How could he have miscalculated so grossly? Where did he go wrong?_

 

He ponders those questions over and over without finding any answer, regardless of how much he twists and turns everything around in his head. _Should he have added some extra adamantium as a safety margin?_ But no, that would have risked setting things off too early, causing a small but mostly harmless pre-reaction, alerting Loki that something was wrong. The amount was perfectly balanced, given the circumstances.

 

But then why has nothing happened yet? Even if Loki hasn’t been injured enough to warrant a healing-by-arc-reactor again, surely he would have liked to try its powers out, take it for a test drive? Don’t gods get paper cuts or snubbed toes that could do with some fixing on the spot? Loki could have used it for anything small and insignificant, just to try it. Or he should at least have probed the reactor with his magic or something, finally bringing the two opposing force fields together like Tony’s been waiting for.

 

But no. And now he’s starting to wonder if anything is _ever_ going to happen. Did he screw up this major chance to off the god? Is he ever going to get a chance like that again, or even any semblance of a chance at all?

 

Well, maybe at least now that Loki has gotten his arc reactor and seemed pleased with the made-to-order, there is a chance that Tony will be let down in the workshop again to work on some other project. He can always hope. Though, if he’s to be totally honest with himself, he has no idea what plan B would be, given that Jarvis will be watching like a hawk and the one method he had been so sure would do the job didn’t. So if he can’t rely on his knowledge of physics and engineering to work, then what else does he have, if the god operates entirely untouched by the laws of physics that are governing everyone and everything else? What good are all his engineering smarts then?

 

His failure is nagging in the back of his head, but it’s not the first and foremost thing anymore, as the days slowly pass into a meaningless blur and time moves like a turtle on crutches.

 

No, the hardest part to deal with is his current circumstances, the crushing feeling of meaninglessness, of existing without living. There’s not a single thing he can think of that makes his life bearable any longer, it’s all a pointless jumble of sleeping, eating, watching movies, ruminating, and staring into the wall.

 

There is nothing to occupy his mind or his hands. He can’t do science, can’t use a computer, can’t do stuff down in his workshop. He just plan _can’t_ anymore.

 

And despite the physical comforts provided – decent food, a soft bed, clean clothes, a warm and dry place to stay, he would have done anything to trade places with one of those innumerable nameless and homeless and possession-less people out there who have lost everything they ever owned in the invasion and are now scrambling to get by. Because at least those people aren’t locked up in prison, cut off from the world and from every other human being, wholly deprived of social interaction.

 

Heck, just… talking to someone would seem like heaven right now. When was the last time he did that? Or laughed with someone? Shared his thoughts and feelings, his elation when some experiment of his worked out the way it was supposed to, or his annoyance with all the administrative shit and boring meetings he had to put up with as the owner of Stark Industries? Or touching the skin of another person? Sometimes he imagines Pepper lying next to him, those fleeting memories of the two of them in bed together looking into each other’s faces, her freckles or the way her nose would scrunch up when she laughed at one of his more improper jokes, how she would run her hand over his arm and across his chest, and further downwards…

 

But there is no one here but him, and neither a re-programmed Jarvis nor a deluded god counts.

 

Heck, even a dog would be a godsend. Just some goddamn fucking _company_ to stop him from going crazy in here.

 

Some mornings he isn’t sure if it’s even worth the bother getting out of bed at all, as opposed to just remain lying there. It’s all so pointless anyway. In the end, he of course has to get up anyway since he really doesn’t want to let his bedroom fill in as bathroom too. But at least before, he had the arc reactor to work on, some sort of goal in mind to keep him from going crazy. Now that that’s done with, he doesn’t have even that much, and no other viable plan for how to take the god down or get himself out of this mess. Granted, he’s made a few embryos of attempts, but they were all early aborted by Jarvis, who resolutely and suspiciously told his former, disgraced boss to stop his current line of action.

 

And he hates himself for that, how he’s giving up, but there is just nothing to keep him going, to sustain him anymore. He’s only a human being, there is a breaking point for him as well, and he senses that it’s approaching, if he isn’t there already.

 

He probably could have taken all this crap, being locked up without his toys and reduced to living at the beck and call of deluded space invader, if it hadn’t been for the _isolation_.

 

And as much as he – and everyone else – has always held Tony Stark for the epitome of a lone wolf who doesn’t play well with others, someone who’d be happy to tinker in his workshop for days on end without any human contact, his current circumstances are something different entirely. It’s fucking _torture_ , is what it is.

 

Maybe Loki is doing this to him on purpose, trying to create some fucked-up Stockholm Syndrome in his captive to make him pliable and eventually win him over. If so, it’s not working. It’s just making him hate the god even more.

 

Not that Loki would care about that, of course. As long as he has Tony to do his bidding, to serve as his magic refill or provider of Midgardian technology or whatever, the god won’t give a shit about how his captive is feeling about things.

 

He looks out the window, wistfully. So close, and yet so far away. He might as well have been locked away in a bunker miles beneath the earth’s surface and the panoramic windows nothing but large TV screens broadcasting images from the world above, forever out of his reach.

 

He finds himself spending a lot of time in front of that window. It’s pathetic, really, like he’s some social recluse weirdo too far gone to dare setting foot outside, but still being intrigued enough by that outside existence to gaze dumbly at it from afar.

 

Except that the choice to remain in here with no contact with the world outside isn’t his. Not in the slightest. In fact, he doesn’t have any say in his own destiny anymore, at least not in any ways that matter. Not even the food he eats everyday is something he has chosen himself, but merely something he picks from the refrigerator or cupboards out of the items provided for him, courtesy of Loki. And of course, such a thing is small and inconsequential, especially considering how many people out there must be starving even now, but it’s annoying him nevertheless. How the control over his own life, every choice previously taken for granted, just don’t exist anymore. Now he’s living on Loki’s whims, on his good graces.

 

Frustrated, he has the sudden urge to throw something, maybe even go on a rampage and destroy whatever is closest, like he had done with the accursed TV down in his old cell, but the angry flare dies down as quickly as it appeared inside of him. He just can’t muster the energy for it, his ire dissolving into bland nothingness and apathy.

 

After of while of doing nothing, of staring at nothing, he heads to the kitchen to get something to eat. Having opened the door to the top cupboard he stands there staring at the contents for a long time before slamming it shut once more. The previous thought resurfacing of Loki being the provider of this is enough to quench the faint appetite he had felt only moments ago, even that physical sensation dwindling away.

 

Instead, he ambles back into the living room, wishing he could go for a run, a drive, a walk, or even a swim. Anything that doesn’t involve the constant walls enclosing him at all sides, keeping him trapped like an animal.

 

He paces, restlessly. It’s like the floor is getting smaller each day, as if the walls are stealthily closing in on him a few inches each night, thinking he won’t notice.

 

And as spacious as the place had felt when he had just had it built, it’s just painfully tiny, now.

 

Quickly growing tired of his current, repetitive mode of action, he heads over to the bookshelf instead, letting a finger sweep across the backs of the long line of books closest to eye level. He doesn’t feel the desire to read anything, but he takes out a book and thumbs through it anyway, not having even noticed the title of it. It’s something about electromagnetism, and even though it’s a subject he would have found engaging mere months ago, he can’t focus on the words. It’s all so pointless anyway.

 

He’s about to put the book back when something falls out of it, apparently a piece of paper used as a bookmark. More out of reflex than anything else, he bends down to pick it up.

 

Seeing what it is, he freezes on the spot. In his hands is a photograph, showing Pepper at Disneyland in a sleeveless summer dress, a white hat on her head to shield against the blazing sun above. She’s smiling, her eyes twinkling in a way that makes her look like a young and carefree girl and not the responsibility-laden CEO that she had been when the picture was taken.

 

And finds himself remembering that day, and how they had eaten ice-cream sundae afterwards, despite Pepper’s initial protests describing what such indulgences would do to her figure, which he had dismissed with some cheesy line about how she would always be the most beautiful woman in the world. He even remembers taking that picture of her. He doesn’t remember having it developed (because why would Tony Stark need old-fashioned paper copies of his digital photos, especially in this day and age?), but he must have because there it is, staring him right into the face, a bitter reminder of days gone by that will never be his again.

 

His fingers tighten, creasing the edges of the photo. He stands there staring at Pepper’s smiling face for a long time, until the skies outside have gone dark and the only light provided is from Jarvis having switched on the automatic interior lighting.

 

* * *

 

He spends a lot of time alternating between staring at that photo, the only visual reminder he has of Pepper, and out the window. Of course, neither really leads to anything further than reminding him of what he doesn’t have and will never have again, but he can’t stop himself. It’s like they’re the only things grounding his sanity and keeping him from going completely crazy in here.

 

He wonders what Pepper is doing. Does she still cling to the belief that Tony will be coming back? Or has she given up on hoping? Does she similarly keep a photo of him that she pulls out to reminisce about?

 

He won’t ever know, of course, nor will he ever see her again. And the knowledge is like a knife cutting him from the inside out until he wants to curl up and cry from the pain of it.

 


	20. Chapter 20

The next time something of significance happens is when Jarvis’ voice rings out over the loudspeaker system, the sound of it making Tony startle. He never used to do that whenever Jarvis addressed him in the past, but now in the silence and stillness the voice is surprisingly loud, almost overbearing, despite its refined and cultured _Mr Stark_ that he’s heard so many times over the years.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters from where he’s slouching in the couch, only barely acknowledging the address. It’s not like it’s going to be anything good anyway. Neutral or inconsequential is the best he can hope for these days.

 

“King Loki requests your presence in the workshop,” the AI clarifies, as usual expecting Tony’s compliance to whatever His Dictatorship happens to be dictating for the day.

 

_The workshop, huh?_ The nature of the request only manages to rustle his attention marginally from where it’s currently nestled in bland apathy, and the feeling soon dies down. So Loki is expecting him to start with another project that is supposed to aid his ruling stint one way or the other, then. Maybe some cosmic death ray or whatever to blast his stubborn remaining enemies into oblivion. Or something. Whatever it might be that the god assumes that Tony’s technological smarts can do that magic can’t.

 

For a few seconds he plays around with the idea of refusing. Of simply telling Jarvis _no_. But the memory of how Loki had been a hair’s breadth away from crushing his hand that one disturbing time resurfaces in all its humiliating glory as a reminder of what price disobedience comes at. And since he’s still not as far gone as to want to risk his hands and craftsmanship again, he slowly rolls off the couch and lumbers to his two feet before heading off to the elevator with a resigned sigh.

 

As he waits for the elevator to carry him down there is a jumble of thoughts jostling around in his head, none of them serving to lift his spirits from where they’re crawling pathetically on the ground. As much as he hates to admit it, he doesn’t have any contingency or back-up plans; he had betted it all on the adamantium-spiked arc reactor – an idea that spectacularly failed him – and since then he’d never really considered what he’d do if he were to gain access to his workshop again. Granted, he has no idea what Loki wants him to do next which makes it pretty much impossible to plan ahead, but a voice in his head is still telling him that he should have been prepared, should have thought of something in the event that he would ever find himself down there again, rather than spending his time uselessly floundering around.

 

But he doesn’t have any further ideas. It’s only a blank, empty space in his head where his creative centre churning out ideas, no matter how implausible, used to be. It’s like it’s all dried up, like a well under the onslaught of the blazing sun in a scorching desert – there’s just nothing left to pour from anymore.

 

Well, maybe he will think of something once he knows what Loki expects from him this time and it’s clear within which limits he will have to operate. Maybe.

 

Still, he can’t help but to think that the old Tony Stark, the one who wasn’t a prisoner in his own tower and reduced to a state of uncharacteristic apathy, would have been able to cook something up already.

 

Gaze sliding upwards, he studies the ceiling of the elevator. It’s as blank and bland as his mind is feeling, all smoothed out into an empty, non-descript surface of white.

 

Clenching his teeth, he looks down again, not enjoying that particular line of thought at all. His mind should be teeming with ideas, designs for escape, plans for resistance, outlines for sabotage, the way it had been that one time back in Afghanistan.

 

Of course, back then, he had had Yinsen. Even if the two of them hadn’t even met before and the man had meant nothing to him until that fateful day they had made their acquaintance, it had made all the difference; he realizes that now.

 

_Yes, he had had Yinsen._ Now, he has no one.

 

_Depression_ , a part of his brain is whispering, but he pushes the thought away. Tony Stark doesn’t get depressed – when in a shitty situation, he gets angry, he gets ideas, he gets himself busy.

 

Expect when he doesn’t, apparently.

 

_It will get better_ , he tells himself as the carriage comes to a smooth halt. _Things will look up, he’s just a bit under the ice right now._

 

_Right?_

 

The elevator answers his question with a non-committal _ping_ , and the doors swoosh open.

 

Dismissing the unpleasant thoughts, he gingerly steps out and into his workshop, glancing around for the god that is probably already busy lounging around arrogantly, looking like the place in its dirtiness is beneath him, like all the rest of planet Earth.

 

The god is nowhere to be seen, however.

 

“King Loki would like to inform you that you have one hour of time in the workshop,” the AI says as Tony comes to a halt in the middle of the room.

 

“One hour to do what?” Tony asks, mildly confused. If Loki had at any point issued any particular orders to him about work to be done, he would have remembered them.

 

“One hour to work on your cars,” Jarvis answers mildly.

 

Tony blinks. That was _not_ the answer he had expected. But perhaps it makes some kind of perverted sense, Loki thinking he can buy Tony’s loyalty this way, by graciously throwing his prisoner the occasional bone and expecting to be shown gratitude in return.

 

_As if._

 

Turning around to face the collection of sleek sport cars lining the far wall, he can only stare for several minutes, strangely unable to muster up the necessary muscle tension to get moving into the appropriate direction.

 

“May I please inform you that your appointed hour has already started ticking, Mr Stark,” Jarvis tells him after a while of this, no doubt in an attempt to be helpful.

 

Slowly, his limbs obeying him again, Tony starts to head over to the long line of shiny vehicles, once his pride and joy, or at least a good part of it. There is no spring or hurry in his steps, though, but more of the kind of reluctant sluggishness that could be expected of a condemned man walking to his doom. The cars appear foreign and odd, and it’s not immediately obvious to him why he ever took such pleasure in tinkering with them.

 

But he’s been given his hour – for whatever reason – so he supposes he might as well use it.

 

At that, his right foot hits something that responds with skidding across the floor with a dissonant clang. He looks down, seeing the wrench he had dropped the last ill-fated time he had played around with one of his cars and Loki had decided to forcefully intervene.

 

He turns his gaze away, the humiliating memory resurfacing once more of how the god had reduced him to a pleading, fearful thing with almost no effort at all. So unlike him, so unlike Tony Stark.

 

Annoyed with himself, he forces the images to dissolve and scoops up the wrench from where it’s lying forlornly a few feet away. Avoiding the Lexus 190, he chooses one of the Ferraris – the one whose engine he’d been doing some trim work on – instead and pops the hood open. The smell of motor oil and grease don’t elicit the usual tinge of excitement in him, though, and the sight of cables and spark plugs and cylinders equally fail to excite him. There is no stirring of the usual, well-known desire to tinker and improve or get lost for a few hours in the wonders of mechanical achievement.

 

Still, he unscrews a few bolts and mutters, tightens a few things and rewires some others. It’s all automatic, merely his hands toiling away as neither his heart nor his mind is in it but merely linger dispassionately as his body works, performing the necessary movements with all the passion of a robot on an assembly line.

 

And it fails to give him even the tiniest amount of pleasure or satisfaction whatsoever.

 

After a while of this, he stops and then just stands there watching the cars. The objects. _The things_.

 

It’s all so pointless. _They’re_ all so pointless. He’d trade them all in an instant for someone to talk to, if only for a few minutes. Even just a smile or a friendly touch would be worth the exchange. Because the cars can do nothing to help in his current situation or offer him any comfort or consolation. They’re no Yinsen who’d provide a listening ear and support when he was at his lowest point in life and desperately needed someone to lean on and everything seemed impossibly bleak and hopeless, igniting that spark inside of him to keep trying, to keep fighting.

 

_No, the cars mean nothing to him now._

 

Eventually, he lets the wrench in his hand fall to the ground where it lands with a dull clatter. Only moments later, he joins it on the floor as he slides down to lean against the side of the Ferrari, his fingers mindlessly fiddling with a greasy bolt that has come loose.

 

After a while he ceases even this mechanic activity and instead rests his forehead on his drawn-up knees and wraps his arms around his legs, pulling them tight to his chest.

 

And then he sits there, still and unmoving, until Jarvis tells him that his hour is up and he has to exit the workshop.

 

* * *

 

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep that night. He tosses and turns between the sheets, thinking of Pepper. His skin feels like its crawling, or maybe it’s his brain; he doesn’t know anymore.

 

He imagines that he can still smell her perfume on the sheets, that ridiculously expensive one that came in this really ugly bottle and whose name he can’t even recall that he had bought her on a business trip to Rome because he had seen it in some high-end beauty shop and remembered how she had once mentioned the brand in a voice with unmistakably swooning undertones.

 

Pepper had loved the little gift, smiling like a thousand suns as he handed it over on his return. Or maybe that was not really the perfume, but because she was happy to see him back. They had kissed and cuddled for a long time that evening, before engaging in even more intimate activities. She had smiled the next morning too as they lay in bed together all cosy and snuggled up, telling him that he was making her the happiest woman on Earth.

 

And it’s strange how something can be no further removed in time than a year and still feel like an eternity away.

 

* * *

 

Another day, and nothing of significance happens. As usual.

 

The hours crawl by, punctuated by nothing. How long will he be able to keep existing like this before he finally looses his mind?

 

Sighing and rubbing his hands over his face, he gives the big panoramic window closest to him another longing look, almost choking at the stab the view causes him. _Outside_. And he will surely never see it again.

 

_No doubt, he’ll die in here. Which is perhaps just as well, because it’s not like he has anything left to live for anyway._

 

And, as if the universe has suddenly heard him and decided to play a nasty trick on him, there is suddenly a sharp crackle behind him, heralding Loki’s dimension-hopping appearance, and Tony doesn’t even need to – even if he does it anyway – turn around to face the god to know that something is wrong, very wrong. His intuition and danger-detection sixth sense are already screaming at him, setting off blaring alarms in his head.

 

And the sight that greets Tony is one of a god steeped in hell-hath-no-fury, looking like an apocalyptic angel of doom, his face contorted in rage.

 

_“How dare you!”_ Loki shrieks, voice shrill and dissonant, like marble on a chalkboard. _“You treacherous little_ snake _!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ops.


	21. Chapter 21

There is no doubt in Tony’s mind what Loki is talking – screaming – about. The only thing he wonders is how come Loki is still apparently unharmed and how did the god find out and _why didn’t his plan fucking work?_

 

“You – you _dare_ to try to harm your king!” Loki hollers, and Tony wants to take a step back, for whatever good it will do him, but the window is already behind him and he’s trapped. The god’s unleashed rage is truly a magnificent spectacle to behold, or at least would have been, if Tony hadn’t been its target – his eyes are burning with an unholy light, green pieces of ember in that ghostly place face, looking like they’re ready to shoot lethal beams of laser any second. Somehow, it’s like he’s grown a couple of inches despite having been a tall freak already, or maybe Tony never realized just how freaking _big_ the god really is. And to top it all off, that green cape is swirling dramatically – evilly – behind him as if in a perverse mirroring of its owner’s mood.

 

If he hadn’t known better, he could have sworn that Loki was indeed the god of thunder and otherwise really shitty weather. It’s like the whole room has darkened and the pressure dropped in anticipation of the vicious storm drawing up. If there had been a crackle of lightning just above them, Tony wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

 

And if he ever thought the god looked crazy, that was only some mild delusion in comparison to the madness etched into his features as he covers the few remaining steps to Tony and punches him right in the face, the force of the blow felling him as easily as were he a house of cards in a hurricane.

 

The world spins before the ground comes up to meet him, dark splotches dancing before his eyes. Then the pain explodes along his jaw line, and he inhales sharply, hand instinctually going up to cup his cheek. Loki’s never punched him before, despite the god’s fondness for face-slapping, but he packs a vicious punch. Whimsically, he wonders if that is going to bruise tomorrow, before realizing that there’s probably not even going to be a tomorrow for him.

 

“You think I wouldn’t be able to tell? _You_ , of all people, hold me for dim-witted?” the god yells somewhere above him, far too loud, far too noisy for the nasty pounding in Tony’s head.

 

Then a hand comes down to grab hold of the front of his shirt. He tries to cringe away, but is roughly pulled to his feet, coming far too close to Loki’s rage-filled face for comfort.

 

“You will regret you audacity, Stark,” the god hisses, mouth curled and teeth sharp. “And you will find out first-hand what happens to those who commit _treason_ against the throne.”

 

He tries to dodge the fist that comes flying at him again, but it is of course useless. The world explodes into a fireball of pain and hurt as hard knuckles make contact with his face, and he groans, surprised that he’s still standing before realizing that Loki’s other hand is still holding him upright.

 

As if hearing his thoughts, Loki brusquely discards of him with a flick of his arm, throwing Tony across the floor like a rag-doll. His arm and shoulder are the first parts of him to make contact with the relentless ground, new flashes of pain shooting up to mix with the old ones. He tries to scuttle away, drag himself over the marble tiles as the hulking god approaches him, but he’s still dazed and not quite sure which direction is which. He only manages a disgraceful squirming before Loki’s foot steps down harshly on his hand, grinding down.

 

He screams, tugging desperately but uselessly at his arm. The foot relents, but there is no time for him to feel any relief before it makes renewed contact, this time with his ribcage, making him gasp for air from the brutal impact.

 

Instinctively, he curls up, choking and whimpering in pain, hoping that nothing is broken. _And fuck, he’s going to die, Loki is going to kill him, and isn’t it strange how he only minutes ago had been musing over how he had absolutely nothing left to live for and now he realizes that maybe he doesn’t quite want to stop living anyway._

 

But it’s all over now, he knows, and he can’t even bring himself to feel all that sad about it, because he did his best, he did what he could, and that’s really that. _Death by evil demi-god._

 

He closes his eyes, trying to think of Pepper. She won’t even know what happened to him, won’t hear of his death, and that just seems so terribly _unfair_ that she won’t even _know_.

 

There’s another kick, and another one again. He curls tighter into himself, trying to protect his face and his midsection, despite the uselessness of it all. Then, the onslaught suddenly stops, as Tony is still gasping for breath, and he is once more dragged to his feet, unable to support himself, but the ruthless hands are holding him firmly in place, stopping him from collapsing into an undignified, boneless heap on the floor.

 

“Well, then,” Loki says, voice dark and low, ostensibly calmer, now, but sharp danger still lurking beneath the silk-thin surface, ready to slice through any second. “You are to find out what consequences betrayal will bring.”

 

And Tony wants to say something snarky and witty, he really does, but his tongue won’t obey him, and it’s not as if his head manages to come up with anything worthwhile to start with. Instead, he merely hisses in pain as Loki half-drags, half-pushes him out of the living room and down the hallway, steps brisk and unencumbered, as if he wasn’t dragging a squirming captive along.

 

The god halts outside the door to one of the extra bedrooms, one that Tony would use to store various odds and ends in, but which has been locked and inaccessible to him since he ended up a prisoner in his own tower. And even if he can’t really feel or see or hear it, he has the distinct impression that Loki works his magic somehow, does _something_ , in that frozen instant of concentration that precedes his pushing the handle down. The door that had stubbornly refused to open to Tony easily swings open at Loki’s touch, though, and Tony renews his struggles. Whatever awaits behind that door, it’s not going to be something good, and frankly, he’s _terrified_.

 

And Loki shoves – no, throws – him inside, making Tony again fall hard on the ground, and he grimaces as the wind is knocked out of him once more. The room is empty, all the gizmos and spare parts and failed experiments and other junk once occupying it gone. Well, empty except for one thing – a big pole in the middle of the room, something that most definitely didn’t use to stand there back when he was still the owner of this place.

 

He doesn’t bother trying to get up as Loki’s feet and the hem of his cape come into view. He’s hurting too much for that, and he will accomplish nothing but getting himself knocked down again. Whatever Loki is going to do, he just hopes it’s going to be quick, even though he very much suspects differently.

 

And then, there is prickle of warmth enveloping him for the split of a second before retreating, its disappearance leaving him inexplicably cold. And that’s when he realizes that he’s naked, the fucking god having magicked all his clothes off, every single piece of it.

 

He shivers, and not from cold. The feeling of being so utterly and terribly exposed is frightening in its stark surrealism.

 

“Hey, what are you--” he weakly manages, the words like heavy lumps of stone in his mouth, but Loki cuts him off.

 

“Silence!” The word is sharper than the cut of a knife, and the rest of the question dies on Tony’s tongue. He knows he’ll find out soon enough, as much as he really doesn’t want to.

 

He’s manhandled back onto his feet and pushed face first against the pole. And that’s when he notices that there are manacles attached to it, manacles fastened to thick metal chains dangling from the top. He struggles feebly as they’re snapped shut around his wrists, closing with a final-sounding click, his arms pulled taut over his head.

 

With his bruised ribcage, each breath is painful, even more so in this position with arms locked into place above him. Shuddering, he leans his forehead against the cold metal – at least he thinks it’s metal – trying to fight down the nausea growing worse by the second. It’s disconcerting how he can’t even see Loki from his current position, while knowing that the god is hovering somewhere behind him, planning who knows what. He tries to turn his head a little, but his vision is effectively blocked by his own arm, so instead he sinks back into the previous arrangement of leaning his forehead against the pole and simply focuses on breathing.

 

“Well, then, Stark,” Loki drawls into his ear, far too close for comfort. A hand grabs hold of his hair, brusquely tugging his head up and back. The by now familiar smell of Loki and leather is strong and musky, and he has to make an effort not to choke on it.

 

“You have committed treason and you have plotted to kill your king. Crimes of such gravity are normally punishable by death.” A short pause, during which Tony is disturbingly aware of Loki’s sharp breaths behind him, whimsically wondering if there’s any leeway at all inherent in that ‘normally’, or if it’s just another word for ‘always’.

 

“But since you’re a Midgardian, and your kind clearly has not grasped the severity of such crimes yet, I have decided to be lenient and mitigate your sentence,” Loki drawls, the fingers in his hair gripping tighter as if they’re trying to rip his scalp off. “I’m going to have you flogged, Stark,” he half-whispers into Tony’s ear. “One hundred lashes. You’ll probably survive. And if you do, you will remember the consequences of betrayal for the rest of your life.”

 

And Tony shudders. He can’t help it. And he knows that Loki notices it.

 

_Fuck._

 

The god pulls back a little, his hand leaving Tony’s hair. “Now, I will leave you for a while to let you contemplate the gravity of your crimes,” he says dispassionately as if he’s discussing the weather. “Then I will return to administer your punishment.”

 

And a few seconds later, the door behind him is slammed shut, and Tony is alone with only the sounds of his own laboured breathing and speeding heart filling his ears.

 

_Fuck._

 

How did everything go to hell so quickly? Mere minutes ago he had been lounging in his living room, certain that the whole arc reactor deal had already been played out. _And now…_

 

Loki will be back to rip him to shreds. He swallows, the pain racing through his body impossible to ignore – the sharp throbbing from his bruised ribs ( _are they cracked?_ ) the relentless pounding in his face and skull, the aches in his shoulders from his arms being pulled so taut, the burning around his wrists from the tight and chafing shackles, and the stabbing fear in his chest, which is in some ways the worst part.

 

_Fuck._

 

And as he’s standing there, naked, bound and helpless, held up by nothing but the chains encircling his wrists, everything just seems to dissolve into one big mess of hopelessness, fear and pain. It’s like the last thin thread holding him together finally snaps, and he does something he hasn’t done since before the first Chitauri descended from that space-hole.

 

Without a single thing left to him, now, he bows his head and cries, hot, burning tears flowing down his cheeks and slowly dripping onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tony.


	22. Chapter 22

He has no idea how much time has passed when Loki returns, but it feels like hours. Days, even. By then, his tears have long since dried, and he’s just hanging limply in his chains, not even able to muster the strength to lift his head to look at the god. It’s like everything has been drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, defeated husk.

 

Maybe he should be angry at himself for giving up like this, but he just can’t bring himself to care or feel anything at all; everything is just consumed in that all-encompassing void of emptiness inside of him. Even the dread that’s been churning inside of him ever since Loki left the room is mostly gone now. Maybe he’ll come out of this alive, maybe he won’t, but it’s not like it matters either way.

 

So as Loki walks up behind him, he just closes his eyes, steeling himself for the worst. For unbearable pain, for mockery or reproach to precede it, for the god to simply strike him down with his magic where he stands. Or hangs. Whatever.

 

He didn’t expect what actually happens, though. Without warning, the manacles around his wrists suddenly snap open, and, unable to remain upright, he drops into an uncoordinated heap on the floor, all tangled and unresponsive limbs. He remains sprawled where he has fallen, not moving – he’s not sure he’s even able to – dully wondering what Loki’s game is and why he has released him. What sick game is the god playing at this time?

 

“Get dressed, Stark,” comes the order from somewhere above, and a second later, something soft lands on top of him. It takes him a few moments to realize that it’s his clothes, a pants leg sprawled over his face.

 

Confused, he blinks, and struggles to roll over. But his limbs won’t obey, and he can’t even feel his arms. They’re just dead weights not belonging to him anymore. To top it off, the agonizing pain in his midsection has flared up again from the harsh impact with the floor, further intensified by the twisted position he managed to land in, and he finds himself unable to do anything more productive than groaning in pain. And even that comes out more like a pitiful whimper than anything else.

 

Loki makes what can best be described as an impatient huff. A second later, there is that weird warmth enveloping Tony again and he twitches feebly, recognizing the feeling of Loki’s magic at work from last time, when he had found himself naked only an instant later. Despite the dull black hole inside of him having drained him of everything, there is still a pang of fear escaping the void at that; of the million things he can imagine the god’s magic doing to him, neither of them heralds anything even remotely good.

 

When the strange sensation has faded, though, he becomes aware that he can actually feel his arms again, despite whatever damage must have been done to them from being chained up so tightly for who knows how long, and the sharp pain that’s been stabbing his ribcage like a pointy dagger is suddenly gone. The bruises and swelling and throbbing are still there, the god having left them unhealed, but the cracked ribs seem to be cracked no longer and he finds himself able to move almost like normal again, despite the pain still accompanying the movements.

 

“Get dressed,” the god repeats impassionately, and Tony rolls over and up onto his hands and knees, grimacing a little, before managing to clumsily struggle to his feet, wondering why Loki didn’t just magic his clothes back on again, when it was clearly no effort for him to do things in the opposite direction.

 

Swallowing, he obeys, dressing stiffly as he wonders what is to come, trying to take some comfort in the tiny relief that comes with having clothes covering his body again. Maybe it means that Loki isn’t going to flay the skin off him as promised for the time being.

 

He has only just barely gotten the T-shirt over his head before Loki speaks up again.

 

“Come,” he says, the single word short and clipped.

 

And Tony follows without a word, confused and bewildered as to the turn of events, wincing as the short walk back to the living room causes his numerous aches and bruises to protest at the frivolous movement. But at least it’s only bruising, now, of that he’s certain as his fingers gingerly trail across his side, encountering nothing worse than soreness.

 

Loki comes to a halt in the middle of the living room, turning around slowly to face Tony with hard eyes and mouth drawn into a taut line. Tony, on his hand, opts to keep the distance between them as wide as possible, and stops just a couple of steps after he’s made it through the door, for whatever good that is going to do him.

 

Even from where he is standing, though, Tony can see the deep creases of barely controlled anger lining the god’s forehead, but other than that, Loki appears somewhat… subdued, almost as if (as if!) he’s feeling ashamed for so blatantly loosing his self-control and lapsing into an uncontrolled fit of rage, like a kid breaking his toys in anger over not being allowed ice cream for dinner. As if he’s come to the unpalatable conclusion that the emotional tantrum he’s just thrown was an unworthy display beneath someone of his own high-and-mighty station. Or maybe whatever contrition Tony is reading there is just an illusion created by the stark contrast between the god’s current calm demeanour and his previous flipping out. From what Tony has seen, he doesn’t think Loki is capable of any feelings of shame to begin with.

 

Apprehensive, he waits for Loki to say something. Or do… whatever. He’s still confused as to why Loki bothered to heal him, even if it was only enough so he could walk to the living room by his own volition as opposed to Loki having to suffer the indignity of dragging him, or why the previously a-promised punishment hasn’t been meted out yet.

 

And ever since being brought as a prisoner to his own tower, he can’t remember feeling in such desperate need of a drink as he does now. But even that feeling is soon devoured by the aching hollowness inside of him, so he only stares emptily at the god, dully waiting for whatever doom is to be spoken over him.

 

Loki crosses his arms over his chest, almost comically reminiscent of a school teacher about to give an unruly student a scolding for misbehaving. Somehow, Tony can keep from laughing, though.

 

When the god speaks, his tone is hard and brusque, but calm enough. Perhaps no further outbursts of fury are on the horizon quite yet, then.

 

“I hope you have used the time wisely to reflect over your crimes,” he says, sounding oddly tired, like _he’s_ been the one chained up for hours waiting to be tortured to within an inch of his life. “Because I will make it utterly clear to you that I will not have any further… _incidents_ of this kind.”

 

“Then you should let me go,” Tony says, the bonds on his tongue finally loosening. And as the words have left his mouth he realizes that he’s had it, he’s not going to play along any longer, not even pretend that he is, consequences be damned. “Because as long as I’m here, if given the chance, I’d do it all over again.”

 

For a moment he’s certain that Loki is going to hit him again, but once again, the god reigns himself in, keeping his calm and controlled demeanour up. He doesn’t even look all that angry anymore, mostly just sullen and obstinate.

 

“I have offered you the chance to prove yourself, to show your willingness to serve and to aid your king. And you have thrown it right back into my face,” Loki says with an accusing air, as if Tony is the one who should feel bad and apologize profusely and promise to do better in order to make things right.

 

“I have already told you, Loki. I won’t cooperate with you, I won’t serve you, I won’t willingly do anything to aid your ruling stint on this planet,” he counters, his voice sounding mechanic and the words practiced, like lines spoken for a play. And that’s really what it feels like, a play rehearsed over and over again with only minor variations, each actor playing his role without the plot ever moving forward. It’s just stuck on the same spot, repeating the same points over and over again. And he’s so fucking tired of it. Tired of it all.

 

And true to form, Loki ignores what Tony is saying, instead continuing with his own diatribe. “You, of all people, you should be intelligent enough to recognize the benefits of my rule and realize how desperately you humans need it. Instead of squabbling over trifles, you can now unite under one strong leader who will guide you into a future of glory and strength.”

 

He looks out the window and the blue sky, following the slow path of a couple of fluffy white clouds sailing by, free and unencumbered. Un-trapped. Un-imprisoned. Un-captive.

 

He makes no reply to that. There is no point – he knows the show already, having participated in this play so many times that he’s sick of it. Nothing he can say will make Loki think differently; the god will keep repeating his lines about ruling and loyalty and rightful kingship, ad nauseam. And Tony’s so fucking tired of it. Tired of it all.

 

“Your civil wars have ended, and instead of churning out an endless stream of useless nick-nacks and mindless diversions, your society can now focus on more worthwhile pursuits,” Loki continues. “And someday, under my tutelage, your collective efforts might even come to rival the might and knowledge of Asgard itself.”

 

Another cloud drifts into view outside, smaller than the first two, but just as un-trapped, un-imprisoned and un-captive. He stares at it in envy.

 

“Great realms are always created through initial strife and hardship. It was the same for Asgard, and the other seven realms. Now that Midgard has gone through that first stage as well, you have every opportunity to rise above yourselves, provided that you accept me as your leader and work with as opposed to against me.”

 

Tony doesn’t answer, because he’s so fucking tired of it. Tired of it all.

 

“You do realize that what you’ve done would and should have merited execution?” Loki’s voice suddenly prompts, a bit sharper now, in response to Tony’s continued silence.

 

And at that, there is just something that snaps inside of Tony. The empty void that has been eating him from the inside out suddenly gives way to something else, a flash of red-hot anger and frustration.

 

_“Then go ahead and do it!”_ he hears his own voice roaring. Arm darting out, he makes a sweeping gesture at the living room, meant to indicate his prison. “You have kept me locked up in here to rot for fucking _months_ , without anyone to talk to, without anything useful to do, so you might as well! Or is this actually your intended method of execution, to kill me off slowly day by day, because that’s exactly the fuck what you’re doing here, Loki!”

 

He only stops for a second to catch his breath before continuing, wanting to say what he has to say before the god strikes him dead.

 

“So how about you just electrocute me with magic lightening, chop my head off, rip my heart out, or whatever fancy way of execution you use up there in Fairyland, because I can’t take this shit any longer! You think you’re going to win my loyalty by keeping me locked up here, cut off from the world and everyone who’s ever mattered to me? Because I tell you, I’d rather _die_ than go on living like this! And if you can point out one single thing that I have left to live for, then do it, because I can’t fucking think of a single one!”

 

Loki’s face is pallid, every line and angle standing out in sharp relief like they’ve been chiselled out of marble.

 

“You get to serve your king,” he intones flatly, but somehow he doesn’t sound quite as confident as he usually does, like there is suddenly a hint of confused hesitance in there.

 

But no doubt Tony’s just imagined it. Of course he has, because after the two of them having stared into each other’s eyes in silence for what feels like minutes, Loki’s face hardens considerably in resolution, as if the god has come to some silent decision, his eyes darkening.

 

And Tony half expects Loki to drag him back to that room and carry out whatever medieval-esque punishment he had in mind, but the god doesn’t.

 

“So, you continue your stubborn insistence on refusing me your loyalty.” Loki’s eyes are boring into him like poisonous arrows, but Tony resists the impulse to look away. Cape swirling around him, the god draws himself up, giving Tony another harsh glare. “Very well, then, Stark. I will give you an ultimatum: You have one week from now to carefully think things over and change your mind. I suggest you make good use of your allotted time, because this is the last chance you will be getting,” Loki says, the implied threat beneath impossible to miss, before he turns on his heel and walks out – not teleporting this time –slamming the door shut behind him.

 

And Tony only stands there, still staring at the spot Loki had occupied, his thoughts churning.

 

_One week? Before what? Before getting executed? Before getting tortured into submission? Before being blood-magicked into some sort of compulsory contract of service?_

 

He doesn’t know, all he knows is that when the week is up, his answer will still be no, consequences be damned.


	23. Chapter 23

The days creep by so slowly that sometimes Tony can swear that time is moving backwards, as if Loki has created his own little special time-distorted torture dungeon, just for him. He doesn’t do anything worthwhile or memorable, merely waits for the week to be over so the godly dictator can do whatever.

 

Mostly, he thinks of Pepper, as he lies on the couch and stares up into the ceiling, remembering the good times they had shared before everything went to shit. At least Pepper survived and is safe in Portland, so he tries to hang onto that. It’s the only good thing left, the only thought grounding his sanity enough to prevent it from slipping away in the all-compassing boredom, frustration, and glumness.

 

_What a way for the great Iron Man to go, wasting away as a prisoner in his own damn tower._

 

Well, Loki will no doubt make the process short, once Tony’s seven days of grace are over without his having budged even an inch on the whole loyal-serving-issue.

 

And so he waits for the inevitable, slouching on the couch, standing at the window, or pacing restlessly. The walls around him are like a confining snare, in some ways worse than when he’d been kept in that dingy cell down in that underground basement. At least back then, he had expected to be let out at some point and get a chance to escape or otherwise put up resistance or do some sabotage, but now there is not even that. Because now, he knows he’s stuck in here, and his ideas for viable plans have all been exhausted. Loki’s won, as loathe as Tony is to admit it, and there is no chance of a happily ever after. These final few days are just the road towards the inevitable end, now.

 

He’s so deep into his own miserable thoughts that he startles when Jarvis suddenly speaks, interrupting the pressing silence.

 

“I would like to bring to your attention that your seven days of consideration are up, Mr Stark,” the AI informs him.

 

 _Seven days of consideration_. Like something taken straight out of the bible that he’s never even read.

 

And he startles at that, because has it been seven days already? Seven days of pointless waiting and gloomy rumination, and he didn’t even realize it.

 

He half-expects Loki to make an entrance on the scene, prepared to hear Tony’s final answer – the last answer that he’s probably ever going to give – in person, but there is no sign of the god as of yet.

 

“King Loki would like to hear your answer now.” A short pause, as if Jarvis is holding the breath he doesn’t even have. “Will you agree to serve your king willingly and loyally, or do you still refuse?” Jarvis continues, sounding even more formal than usual.

 

“Well, you can tell Loki that my answer is still no way in hell,” Tony says, remaining on his back on the couch where he’s sprawling. “It’s not gonna happen, Jarvis. So go ahead and tell your boss he might as well start preparing that execution, because I will never willingly say yes.”

 

The AI is quiet for a while. Then, “I am sorry to hear that, Mr Stark. I will, however, relay your unfortunate answer to King Loki.”

 

“Yeah, you do that, Jarvis,” Tony mutters, waving a dismissive hand towards the ceiling. At least he can be defiant to the end, refusing to bow down and submit to Loki’s fucking shit.

 

He steels himself, expecting Loki to materialize out of thin air any second, either spitting fury and venom at Tony’s stubbornness, or exerting enough self-control to play up his creepy, ominous you-have-defied-me-for-the-last-time side, but nothing of the sort happens. Perhaps the god is currently busy smashing up his furniture in anger before proceeding to taking it out on the actual source of his rage, then.

 

He waits, nervous trepidation slowly growing inside of him. He had been sure Loki would appear on the scene shortly after to meet out whatever consequences are to follow, but so far there is nothing.

 

At that, he remembers all too clearly how Loki’s face had hardened in resolution towards the end of their conversation a week ago just before the god had spoken his ultimatum, as if whatever last-resort decision he had come to in regards to how he would deal with Tony’s obstinacy had been unsavoury and disagreeable even for him.

 

And Tony really doesn’t want to know what such a the-end-justifies-the-means line of action would entail for him, not if it leaves a sour taste even in Loki’s mouth.

 

Still, that thought keeps churning relentlessly in his head – _What kind of decision had Loki come to back there? Why had it brought such a grim but determined look to his face?_

 

He waits for a long time – at least it seems like a long time, his uncooperative mind imagining the worst scenarios it can possibly conceive of, churning out scene after scene of disturbing executions and torture sessions and unholy mind-controlling magic. And a possibility that he hasn’t even considered until now, but that is probably the worst of them all – getting thrown back into that old, underground cell again, alone and forgotten, until he goes crazy in there, loosing his mind once and for all.

 

He shudders. _Don’t think about that._ Because who knows, maybe Loki has some way of tapping into Tony’s thoughts and will be able to tell it’s one of the things that he‘d fear the most, deciding to make that his chosen method of retribution.

 

 _What if the god decides to lock him up down there again?_ Hands clenching into fists, he swallows, mouth dry.

 

He waits for even longer. He waits for so long that his nerves are frayed enough for him to jump a little when Jarvis’ voice comes on-line again.

 

“Please enter the elevator, sir,” it says, as usual offering no more information than absolutely necessary.

 

 _So that’s it, then._ He’s going to have to answer to Loki, now; the moment has finally arrived.

 

But there’s no point in drawing it out any longer. Everything has been so painfully drawn out during these months and he just wants for this to be over and done with. Even if it means that _everything_ will be over and done with.

 

And since waiting for the inevitable is even worse, he draws a deep breath and slowly gets up from the couch and makes his way to the elevator, walking towards his doom. At least he’ll go with dignity and his head held high; he can at least grant himself that small something.

 

The doors close behind him and he tries not to think about how final it sounds before the carriage starts to move upwards to take him to Loki’s quarters.

 

Expect that it doesn’t. Instead of going upwards as expected, he finds himself being taken down, down, and further down, until the carriage finally comes to a halt at ground level.

 

So it would seem that whatever Loki has planned, it is to be carried out here for whatever malevolent reason. Maybe the god finds the prospect of getting the walls of his floor splattered with Tony’s blood distasteful, even if he has his instant-stain-remover magic at hand. He holds his breath as the doors open with agonizing slowness, having little idea what to expect.

 

What greets him isn’t what he expected (whatever that was), though. Instead, there is only the ground floor as he remembers it, nothing out of place or out of the ordinary. Gingerly, he sticks his head out to look both left and right, before exiting the elevator. The doors close behind him, and for some reason that sounds even more final than when they slid shut before the ride down here.

 

He keeps eyeing his immediate surroundings in suspicion, hoping to spot what is about to happen before it actually does. It’s all so disturbingly familiar down here, like he’s been transported to another time, back to when things were different and _normal_. There’s the big hallway mirror, the cheesy plastic palm tree in the corner that looks _almost_ real, the floor mat with its just barely discernible brownish stain still there. He finds himself suddenly remembering how he had made a mental note to have a cleaning firm take care of it, but never got around to. It wasn’t that terribly many months ago, but still feels like forever, now.

 

There’s a gym bag lying forlornly in the hallway, and he whimsically tries to recall why it’s lying there in the first place, when and for what purpose it was used before it got dumped into its current spot on the floor, but his memory fails him. Whatever. It’s not like it’s important anyway.

 

Stubbornly, he refuses to look all the way to the right, because he knows full well what is there and he just can’t bring himself to. It’s too close, too much, too imposing. He can’t even bear to see it now – the door leading to the outside. So close, and yet so far away. Of course, it’s been magicked shut like all those other doors in this place he can’t open, and he’s not going to debase himself by pathetically and desperately lunging for such an impossible temptation when Loki will no doubt appear any second, if the god isn’t watching out of some corner already, hidden by magic smoke and mirrors.

 

“You are free to go, Mr Stark,” Jarvis suddenly says, the unexpected sound of the AI’s voice followed by a quiet but still very much audible click as the locking mechanism to the entrance door snaps open. “Since your choice has regretfully been not to serve King Loki, the king has no use for you, and you will have to leave the premises without being allowed to return here again.”

 

_And that just isn’t right. It can’t be. It’s not possible. It just plain… can’t._

 

He stares dumbly as the door impossibly swings open to admit a full view of the outside, one he hasn’t seen without a glass pane covering it for so long. One he had been certain he never _would_ see again.

 

But it’s all a cruel trick, of course. He knows that. Nothing but a game of Loki’s, another one of his attempts to punish and torment Tony for refusing to play along. Nothing but that. The door will be slammed shut in his face when he approaches, or a spell has been put in place to physically prevent him from stepping over the threshold.

 

“By the way, sir,” Jarvis continues, “I took the liberty of asking Dummy to pack a bag for you with some basic necessities. I figured you might need it.”

 

Slowly, carefully, he makes his way over to the open door, despite already knowing that it’s all a devious trick conceived to torment him. He comes to a halt just before the doorsill, waiting for the door to slam shut, but it remains open. So he gingerly reaches out a hand, expecting it to encounter an invisible barrier, but there is none, only a gust of wind caressing his fingers.

 

He pulls his hand back, dumbfounded.

 

And he stands there for a long time, still and unmoving, waiting for the curtain to fall, for the hoax to finally be revealed, but there is nothing. Nothing but another gust of wind, soft against his face, and a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds above to pierce his eyes.

 

And that’s when he reaches out his other hand in transfixion, grabbing the gym bag lying waiting at his side, his eyes never leaving the view outside.

 

“Bye, Jarvis,” he says, words oddly choked in his throat.

 

“Good bye, Mr Stark. And – good luck.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

And with that, he steps over the threshold and out into the open. He doesn’t turn to look back, he only keeps walking, the sun in his eyes and the wind against his skin.

 

And a smile on his face.

 

_Because Pepper is waiting for him in_ _Portland_ _._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the final chapter, people! ^^ I’m sure quite a lot of you expected this to take another turn, but this is the outcome I had in mind all along, and the happiest ending I could envision under the circumstances. 
> 
> As for the million dollar question, why did Loki let Tony go in the end? Well, Loki might be a bastard alright, but he’s still only 95% bastard or so. ;) If anyone wants a more in-depth explanation than that, you’re free to ask and I’ll provide some more psychological insight into Loki’s thoughts/reasons/actions – while I’ve always had a clear notion of what’s been driving Loki’s actions (either consciously or subconsciously) in regards to Tony, the limitation of the story being Tony’s POV-only has left much of that to be inferred or guessed by the reader, after all, but I’m happy to elaborate on it in case anyone is curious. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, and, as always, please review. :D


End file.
